


Everybody Talks

by lemonoclefox



Series: Everybody Talks [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Closeted Mickey, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Rimming, Romance, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, at least at first, let's just say that it won't be too angst-heavy, more tags to follow as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 91,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonoclefox/pseuds/lemonoclefox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey and Ian have been best friends for three years, and it has always been solid, simple, and blissfully uncomplicated. But when a drunken, harmless prank leads everyone to briefly believe that their friendship has drastically evolved into something else, Mickey is confronted with the possibility that his feelings for Ian might be slightly more than platonic. In other words, it doesn't take very long before things do start to get a bit... complicated.</p><p>An awkward love story where miscommunication, tension, and pining abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Started With A Whisper

**Author's Note:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
>  
> 
> I got the idea for this from one of the many prompts floating around (I do have such a weakness for fake dating tropes, and while this isn't exactly that, this is where my mind went), and I couldn't resist. I know I've still got Gimme Shelter to finish, and I haven't given up on it, but I just needed something else to write at the moment (I'll try to update this at least semi-regularly, but we all know how that goes). I don't know yet how many chapters there will be, we'll see. (Also, it seems that I've decided to name each chapter after song lyrics, so.. that's always fun)
> 
> So Mickey isn't out yet, but Ian is, and there will be slow burn, and not too much angst (this is mostly supposed to be fun).  
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
>  **EDIT:** I did end up naming every chapter after song lyrics, and now that the fic is done, I've put together a playlist of said songs. You can listen to it [here](http://8tracks.com/lemonoclefox/best-friends-and-all-that).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter is unbeta'd, so any mistakes are on me)  
> Chapter title (and kinda sorta maybe-not-really the fic title) inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psdJcrNda84).
> 
> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**

A soft chime sounds, making Mickey frown, half-awake. He feels fuzzy and heavy-headed, but somehow the tiny sound breaks through, making him groan as it chimes again, and again. He cracks his eyes open, promptly shutting them as a bright light burns his retinas. He pulls the blanket over his head. It's too early in the morning for this. Granted, he has no idea what time it is, but it can't possibly be a decent hour. He resolves to go back to sleep, and takes a deep breath. He can feel himself drifting already.

There's the chime again, and this time Mickey groans louder, reaching out blindly from underneath the blanket to find the source of the disturbance. Another soft chime, and he finds it, clumsily grabbing his phone from the nearby table. He peeks out from under the blanket, just enough to see the screen and turn the sound off, before putting the phone back and retreating underneath his shield of half-scratchy, avocado-colored fabric.

For a minute or so, there is complete silence, and Mickey happily drifts off again―until he hears a creaking floorboard, followed by the sound of squeaky door hinges. He groans, burrowing deeper underneath the blanket, but it's to no avail. He can't hide forever, it seems.

"'Morning."

The voice is familiar, and not entirely unwelcome, but Mickey is in no mood for any of it. He grunts, and before he knows it, he hears a sigh, and the blanket is pulled away from his face. He throws his hand up, covering his eyes with his arm.

"The fuck, man?" he croaks, grasping for the blanket.

"Rise and shine," Ian says, sounding tired, but still way too chipper for Mickey's taste.

"Fuck off," Mickey mutters. Ian ignores it, padding over to the kitchen, by the sound of it.

"Get up," he says. "It's ten-thirty."

Mickey grumbles, eyes still closed. Still too early.

"It's Saturday," he says. "S'my day off."

Ian makes a noise of confirmation.

"True," he admits, "but I've got lunch with Fi and the kids in a couple hours. And as much as you're always welcome here, you do have your own place, so..."

Mickey opens his eyes to a squint, just enough to see Ian standing in the kitchen doorway, making a shooing motion with his hand.

"I am not moving," Mickey says, slowly forcing his eyes open properly and contradicting his own words by slowly rolling over onto his back. He grimaces. Ian's living room couch isn't the comfiest thing, and his whole body is aching from what he already realizes is a monster of a hangover.

"Really?" Ian says flatly. "Not even for coffee?" Mickey grumbles petulantly. "Not even for bacon?"

Mickey glances back over at the kitchen in interest, and Ian raises his eyebrows at him. He's wearing an old tank top with a pair of tight-fitting boxers, red hair sticking out in all directions, and although it's a far cry from his usual, luminous self, Mickey is still pretty sure he looks ten times better than anyone ever should under these circumstances.

"Fine," Mickey grunts. "But you're making it."

Ian gives him a mock serious nod, and retreats into the kitchen, while Mickey slowly forces himself up into sitting position. He flinches as he moves, lifting a hand up to rub his forehead, as if that will make a difference. His mouth is dry, and his head feels like it's packed with wet sand.

"When the fuck did we get back, last night?" he asks, mostly to himself, but Ian hears it.

"Not sure," he calls from the kitchen. "Around three-ish, I think? It's all kind of a blur, once we hit that last bar."

Mickey furrows his brow, trying to remember. It is pretty blurry; he recalls him and Ian going out for a beer, which then turned into a few beers. Then they ended up leaving that first place and heading over to Boystown, where they had another few beers, drinks... Maybe shots? Mickey's not entirely sure. Whatever. It's not the first time they've gotten shitfaced together, and it probably won't be the last.

By the time Mickey manages to get off the couch and pull his pants on―completing his ensemble of a black tank and jeans―Ian is nearly done with breakfast, and Mickey shuffles into the kitchen. Ian doesn't even look up at him, keeping his eyes on the frying pan, and Mickey pours himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee, before taking a seat at the small kitchen table. He sips the hot drink, lamenting the fact that even at just twenty-four years old, his massive hangover is a statement to the decline of the resilience of youth.

"Hey," Ian says after a little while, dividing up the bacon on two plates and setting them down on the table. "Thanks, by the way."

Mickey frowns, looking up at his friend as he sits down opposite him.

"For what?" he asks, picking up a piece of bacon with his fingers and taking a bite. _God_ , it's so tasty, he could cry.

"For last night," Ian clarifies, picking up a piece from his own plate. "I needed that."

Mickey keeps his frown, blinks in confusion. Last night? Wait. He backtracks, thinking back to the last bar, then the one before, Ian meeting him there, Ian calling him―

Ian calling him and being all torn-up, rambling about the latest douchebag in his never-ending douchebag parade, some guy who just dumped him and left him all broken-hearted and pissed off. Mickey remembers. He remembers, and as soon as he does, he stifles the urge to sigh; he has lost count of all the times some nameless jerk has dumped Ian for no reason, leaving Mickey to pick up the pieces and leaving Ian to ask himself _what makes him so unlovable_ , for the millionth time.

Mickey doesn't say any of that. He doesn't mind helping out, he just doesn't like seeing Ian that way.

"Don't worry about it," he says instead, munching on his piece of bacon. "What are friends for, right?"

Ian gives him a tired smile.

"Still, though," he says. "I needed to get my mind off of it. I know it can't be fun for you, listening to me bitch and whine, but you stick around anyway. So, thanks. I had a really good time."

Mickey feels a small warmth in his chest. It feels nice.

"Like I said," he says through a mouthful of bacon. "Don't worry about it."

They leave it at that. They've never really been much for mushy feelings and deep conversations―well Ian is, and Mickey mostly ends up listening―but they don't really need that stuff anyway. Ian is Mickey's best friend, and Mickey is Ian's, plain and simple. It has been that way for the better part of three years, and it has worked out just fine, so far.

Mickey finishes off his breakfast and puts the plate and cup in the sink, before heading for the bathroom.

"Hey, I'mma use your shower," he says over his shoulder, and Ian nods from where he's lining up his regular dose of medication on the kitchen counter.

"Sure," he says, and Mickey gives him a vague thumbs-up before entering the bathroom. He shuts the door, lazily strips down and turns on the shower, catching a glimpse of his face in the mirror. _Shit,_ he looks awful, blue eyes slightly bloodshot and general expression half-dead and exhausted. He groans. He's getting too old for this already, and it sucks.

The hot spray of the shower feels heavenly against his skin, and he swears he almost dozes off for a minute, before snagging some of Ian's shampoo and body wash to clean off. The smell of it is familiar, and Mickey breathes it in deeply. It's not the first time he has borrowed Ian-scented stuff, but the smell of it is still weirdly comforting.

The sound of knocking on the door snaps him out of his tired haze, and he turns toward the sound, unable to see through the opaque, striped shower curtain.

"Yeah?" he says.

"You done soon?" Ian asks. "I gotta show you something."

Mickey frowns, wondering why it can't possibly wait another five minutes.

"Yeah," he says. "Just give me a sec."

Ian doesn't reply, and Mickey rinses himself off, turning off the shower and stepping out, grabbing a spare towel from the top shelf on the bathroom wall. He barely even has to look, knows exactly where Ian keeps all of his stuff.

It's about a minute later that he exits the bathroom, boxers and tank top on, absently drying his hair with the towel and trying to ignore the unpleasant heaviness in his head.

"What?" he says flatly, as he sees Ian honest-to-god _pacing_ the living room. Ian looks up, chews his bottom lip.

"So, um," he starts. "I got a text from Mandy. She, uh... You know, I should probably just show you."

He doesn't sound concerned, or agitated, but something about his manner puts Mickey on edge. He narrows his eyes, almost suspiciously, as Ian makes his way over to him, phone in hand.

"What's this about?" Mickey asks, but Ian just shakes his head.

"Just―" he says, finding something on his phone and holding it up so Mickey can see. "Just watch."

Mickey obeys, frowning slightly as he directs his eyes at the screen. It's an Instagram post, a video, and it takes Mickey a second to register that it's of him and Ian. There's noise in the background, whooping and music and flashing lights, and they look very happy, and very drunk.

 _"Big announcement!"_ Ian practically shouts in the video, a huge grin on his face and his words slurred. _"It's finally happened, finally, and I just― Mick, you wanna do the honors?"_

He turns to video-Mickey, who's smiling so wide that real life-Mickey barely even recognizes himself.

 _"Nah, man,"_ video-Mickey drawls, waving him off. _"This is your kind of shit, I don't do announcements."_

 _"Come on!"_ video-Ian pleads, and his friend just smiles wider. Mickey could swear he almost looks... giddy, or some shit. _"You're the one who asked, it's only right."_

Video-Mickey shakes his head, adamant in his refusal, and Ian caves.

 _"Alright, fine,"_ he says turning back to the camera. _"I'm just gonna say it then."_ He spreads his free arm, the one not holding the phone, out wide, as if to properly convey the excitement that's already showing on his face. _"We're getting married! Mickey fucking Milkovich, my best friend in the whole wide world, just fucking proposed to me, and I'm so fucking happy."_

Mickey feels his stomach drop, resists the urge to glance at the real Ian standing beside him. Meanwhile, video-Ian turns to video-Mickey, mirroring his grin as their gazes lock. For one split, panicked second, Mickey thinks he might actually witness a kiss, but that doesn't happen. Instead, he sees Ian lean in and place his forehead against his friend's, and neither of them speaks for a moment or two.

 _"I'm so fucking happy."_ Ian's repeated words are lower this time, but still loud and clear, and as the video ends, Mickey can't stop staring at the screen. His hazy hangover is momentarily gone, instead replaced by a loud pounding in his ears. He feels oddly numb, terrified, even though he knows he shouldn't, has no reason to. Clearly, this was some drunk prank they pulled last night at the club, just something Ian thought would be funny to put on Instagram, something they could laugh about as friends. Mickey knows this.

So why is he panicking?

Ian reanimates beside him, pulling the phone away.

"There's a bunch of comments," he says. Mickey can't quite determine his tone. "I mean, I know it's just a joke, even if I can't really remember it, but some people seem to actually be taking it seriously."

Mickey's gaze snaps up to meet his, and Ian mistakes the panic in his eyes for something else.

"In a good way," he says hurriedly. "They're pretty happy for us, actually. I mean, you know." He makes a vague gesture. "If it were real. Which it isn't. Right?"

He sounds casual, nonchalant. The tiniest hint of uncertainty in his voice must just be Mickey's imagination.

"Right," Mickey says, forcing a small, equally nonchalant smile. "Just a joke."

Ian relaxes and smiles back, turning his attention back to his phone, while Mickey swallows dryly, completely blindsided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short and messy, but stuff will start making more sense in the next one. I just kind of wanted to capture Mickey's (and Ian's, I guess) confusion.. Stay tuned!


	2. What's Up With My Heart (When It Skips A Beat)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments! I read them all and smile like an idiot, trust me.  
> Chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amJNTsfl8MU).
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd (as usual..), but I hope you enjoy.
> 
> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**

Mickey has never been very eloquent, and this time is no exception. He can't really think of anything to say, so he just stares, stunned and confused, at the comments on Ian's Instagram video. Most of them are from people Mickey doesn't even know―Ian's network of acquaintances is stupidly large, and impossible to keep track of―and they're all well-wishing and happy. Clearly, they haven't spoken to Ian in some time, or they'd know that not only is he _not_ dating his best friend, but that said best friend isn't even gay.

Because he isn't. Mickey isn't, although he has always been totally fine with Ian being just that, at least after those few weeks of awkwardness on his part when they first started hanging out. He remembers that Ian was so open about it from day one that it was kind of off-putting, Mickey really only easing into the idea after they'd gotten to know each other better. He's not sure why Ian somehow ended up being the exception―Ian was just Ian, and when it came down to it, Mickey just liked hanging out with him too much to care about any special preferences he might have had.

If only his dad could see him now; best friends with the exact type of person Terry would have killed him for even going near in any other capacity than to beat his ass to a pulp. Good thing his dad is in prison then, locked up for hopefully at least half another decade or so.

"We should probably take it down, right?" Ian says, and Mickey looks up. "I mean, I get it if you're weirded out by the comments and stuff. I don't know what the hell we were thinking."

He adds a small huff of laughter, and Mickey relaxes a little bit. Ian doesn't seem at all bothered by any of this. If anything, he seems concerned that it might bother Mickey, which prompts a pleasant feeling inside that Mickey tries to ignore.

"Nah, man," Mickey says. "I mean, yeah, we should probably tell people that we're not actually engaged, but it's fine."

The word _engaged_ is for some reason difficult to say with a straight face.

"I wouldn't worry about that," Ian says, doubtful and amused, eyebrows raised. "You really think anyone we actually know is gonna take it seriously? Mandy just thought it was hilarious."

Mickey shrugs.

"Whatever, man," he says, playing it off as nonchalantly as he possibly can. The whole conversation is making him feel inexplicably uncomfortable, in a way he hasn't felt around Ian for years. "Do what you want."

Ian presses his lips together in deliberation, looking down at his phone.

"I think I'm gonna take it down," he says. "Probably best, right?"

Mickey just shrugs again, and Ian takes it as a yes, proceeding to delete the video. Then Mickey is suddenly hit with a pang of disappointment, and he shifts his weight where he stands.

"So it's gone?" he asks, and to his surprise, Ian shakes his head.

"No," he says. "It's still on my phone, just not up for the world to see."

"You gonna keep it?"

"Yeah, I think so," Ian says, a little thoughtfully. "I kind of like it, even if it is fake."

He gives Mickey a smile, the sight of which is suddenly enough to make Mickey avert his eyes after just a moment, like he can't look straight at it. _What the hell is happening?_

"But hey," Ian says, draping his arm over Mickey's shoulders, using his extra height to lean against him. "If I were getting married, I think we'd make a pretty good match."

Their eyes meet, and Ian smiles wider, giving Mickey a nudge before releasing him. He puts his phone down on the coffee table by the couch, heading for the bathroom.

"You better not have used up all the hot water," he says, and without further ado, shuts the bathroom door behind him, leaving Mickey standing in the middle of the living room, towel in hand. The bathroom door cracks open a moment later, just enough for Ian to toss out Mickey's jeans, and Mickey slowly makes his way over to pick them up from the floor before Ian closes the door again. Mickey throws his damp towel onto the couch, slowly putting his pants on as he absent-mindedly stares at the wall. He hears the shower come on, and he blinks, trying to make sense of this whole thing.

It's not a big deal. It really isn't, at least Ian clearly doesn't think so. It was just a joke, a fun, dumb thing they posted while drunk, and Mickey normally wouldn't give two shits about it. So why does he feel so weird?

He turns to the coffee table, suddenly hit by a thought, and he picks up his phone, wondering if maybe Ian isn't the only one who's been bombarded with messages. Sure enough, it seems that all those chimes that disturbed his sleep earlier were multiple text messages from his sister. He drags a hand down over his face as he reads them.

 _Congrats, assface!_ the first one says, followed by another. _About time you locked that hottie down._

Mickey sighs, reading the next few messages.

_One of us should. Too bad I lack the appendage._

_Seriously though, what the hell?_

_How shitfaced were you last night? I know you're bros, but come on._

_It made me laugh, good job._

There's a later timestamp before the next message, and Mickey assumes it must have arrived after he shut the phone's sound off.

_Unless you're legit getting married, then I call dibs on maid of honor._

With no more messages to read, Mickey groans tiredly, tossing the phone aside and slumping down on the couch, leaning back. Well, at least Ian was probably right; no one they know is going to take this seriously. Mickey knows he should feel relieved, but he can't shake this weird knot in his stomach. He blames the hangover.

By the time Ian has showered and gotten dressed later, Mickey's head feels a little bit clearer. It's still a little hazy and tired, but manageable, and he waits by the front door while Ian gathers up his things in preparation for leaving the apartment.

"Come on," Mickey says impatiently, holding his jacket in one hand and scuffing his boot against the doormat. "You're the one who fucking woke me up at the crack of dawn to throw me out and go on your little family date, and you're not even done yet."

Ian sighs.

"Ten-thirty, Mick," he says tiredly, throwing Mickey a glance as he hurries into his bedroom. "It was fucking ten-thirty."

"Whatever," Mickey mutters. "I ain't got time for this. We gonna go, or not?"

"Jesus, hold on," Ian calls from his bedroom. He soon exits it, attaching a watch to his wrist as he goes. He stops dead in the middle of the living room, so as to give the task his undivided attention, and Mickey watches him for about three seconds before sighing and rolling his eyes. He makes his way over to his friend, slapping his hand away and fastening the watch himself in a matter of moments. He looks up at Ian.

"There," he says, and frowns when he catches the small, amused smile on Ian's face. "What?"

"All that's missing is a homemade lunch and a kiss on the cheek," Ian says teasingly, "and I'd be good to go."

Mickey hides his sudden fluster with an expertly executed bitch face.

"Yeah, alright smartass," he says. "Come on."

He turns around and heads back to the front door, Ian in tow.

"No, really," Ian says. "I think I see the benefits of the whole marriage-thing now."

Mickey flips him off, prompting a startled, fond laugh from Ian, and the two of them leave the apartment to head downstairs.

Mickey wasn't lying, he does have the day off, and while he normally would at least try to do something a bit more productive with his precious free time, all he wants right now is to collapse in his own home and sleep away the rest of the day. Ian gives him a ride home, and Mickey undoes his seatbelt as soon as they pull up outside his apartment building, immediately going for the passenger side door of Ian's beat-up old Honda.

"You sure you don't wanna come?" Ian asks for the third time since they've left his apartment, and Mickey stops in mid-motion. "Pretty sure Fiona could hook you up with some diner pie if you look pathetic enough."

Mickey throws him a glare.

"Are you insinuating something?" he says, and Ian pulls back in outrage.

"I would never," he says. "Just saying that you don't exactly rock a hangover like you used to."

Mickey scoffs.

"Yeah, well you don't exactly look like a million fucking bucks, yourself," he lies. "Now fuck off, I gotta crash for a few hours."

"Suit yourself," Ian says as Mickey gets out of the car. "Want me to bring you back something?"

Mickey doesn't reply, just waves noncommittally as he slams the door shut behind him. He makes his way toward his apartment building, and hears Ian roll down the car window.

"Cherry pie it is!" he calls, and Mickey has just enough time to turn around and open his mouth to tiredly refuse, before seeing Ian speed off down the street, clearly electing to ignore whatever objections Mickey might have. Mickey lets out a huff, scratching the back of his head.

He hates how well Ian knows him―not to mention how much he's suddenly looking forward to that fucking pie.

By the time Mickey has dragged his way up to his apartment, he's exhausted. He steps inside and kicks his boots off, dumping his jacket on the floor before unceremoniously flopping down onto the couch. It's not as comfortable as Ian's, which is saying a lot, but it'll do. Why he keeps ending up this way whenever Ian needs it, he has no idea. It has just pretty much always been that way.

The first time they met was through Mandy. Ian was working at some fancy-ass Abercrombe-ish store, and Mandy vainly spent several days taking unnecessary trips to said store, just to hit on him. Mickey remembers her frustration, her annoyance at Ian somehow being immune to the charms which would normally have any guy on his knees in a matter of seconds. When it turned out that Ian was actually gay, Mickey thought Mandy would be bummed about it, but then found out that it was quite the opposite―it was an explanation for his lack of interest in her, soothing her bruised ego, while also adding the bonus of no sexual agenda as to why he was spending time with her. After that, the two of them became great friends, and Mickey met Ian for the first time while visiting Mandy one night that now feels like ages ago.

Mickey may not be into dudes, but he can at least objectively tell when someone is attractive, and he remembers his very first impression of Ian being just that. Not just that he was attractive (insanely so, really), but that he was also incredibly aware of it, which is something that has always rubbed Mickey the wrong way. The fact that the guy was gay was a bit of an awkward thing too, but Mickey tried to be civil about it. He kept his distance, being polite and casual each of the many times Ian tried to make some kind of conversation during the evening, and only really loosened up once the two of them ended up engrossed in a very intense round of _Halo_. From there, they got into the subject of guns and weapons, sharing and comparing knowledge and experiences, between Mickey's violent thug-days (commemorated by the scrawled tattoos on his fingers), and Ian's much more formal ROTC training. Through the ease of common ground, they soon realized that they had the same sense of humor, several other interests in common, similar backgrounds, and well..

Mickey still isn't quite sure how it happened, but from that night on, they were virtually inseparable. Mandy had a slight issue for a while with Mickey practically stealing her BFF, but she quickly got over it―although she makes a point of sharing inside jokes and secrets with Ian now and then, as if to maintain her position. Mickey really couldn't care less.

Mickey exhales heavily into the pillow pressed between his face and the armrest of the couch. He deliberates for a moment, before digging his phone out of his pocket and bringing it up to his face. He kind of wishes Ian hadn't taken the video down. Not because he wants everyone to see it―because clearly, they all totally misunderstood the actual point of it―but because he wants to be able to watch it again. He can't help it. The way Ian so animatedly delivered the news of their supposed engagement, the way he looked so excited, Mickey's own grin as he stared at his overjoyed friend.

 _I'm so fucking happy._ Mickey knows Ian didn't really mean that, at least not in the sense he pretended. He knows that it was just part of the prank, to add another layer of credibility to an already pretty convincing announcement. But still. He seemed so sincere, so genuinely happy, and what gets to Mickey the most is that he did, too. In the video, he himself looked so over-the-moon that it was weird to watch. He has no idea what happened, doesn't even remember. He drops the phone to the floor and groans sleepily into the pillow, closing his eyes.

At least he didn't _actually_ propose.

 

"You know what?" Ian says, voice loud and slurred, just barely heard over the music and the bass vibrating through the floor. Mickey gives a nod of thanks to the bartender that slides over two more glasses of tequila, and pulls the tiny glasses closer to him.

"What?" he asks, just as loudly as Ian. He makes sure not to nudge the slices of lime placed gently on top of the glasses. Even through his very drunk haze and slightly wobbly vision, he has enough presence of mind to know that he should avoid consuming anything that touches the sticky surface the glasses stand on.

"Fuck him," Ian says, frowning, slumping against the bar. Mickey glances up at him, and he makes a face. " _Chad_. Fucking Chad. And who the fuck is named _Chad_ , anyway, like in real life? What kind of bullshit is that?"

Ian throws his hands up in outrage, nearly knocking over a colorful drink standing next to him. Luckily, its owner swipes it away before any harm is done, but Mickey still instinctively lifts a hand up to gently pat Ian's arm, urging him to lower it.

"Fuck him," he agrees drunkenly, grabbing the little salt shaker nearby. "His loss, right?"

He keeps his eyes on their drinks, paranoid that they'll either spill, be stolen, or be roofied, while Ian barely seems to be paying attention. He really should look out for himself more.

Even over the loud music, Mickey can hear Ian let out something between a huff and a groan, of equal parts agreement and frustration.

"Damn straight," Ian says. "He treated me like shit, I can't believe I put up with that crap for weeks."

"Why did you?" Mickey asks. It's more of a rhetorical question, but Ian considers it, his face scrunching up in thought. He shrugs.

"He was a pretty good fuck," he settles on, and Mickey makes sure to look anywhere but at his face. "Up until he dumped me for no fucking reason. Fuck, I swear I don't get why this keeps happening to me. Why―?"

"Ey," Mickey interrupts him, and Ian shuts right up, eyebrows slightly raised as his gaze meets Mickey's. "Shut up about Brad."

"Chad," Ian corrects him.

"Whatever. You wanted to get shitfaced, that's what we're doing." He licks the back of his hand, not particularly gracefully, and then pours salt over the spot, making it stick to his skin. He looks back up at Ian, who's just staring at him, and makes a beckoning motion with his non-salted hand. Ian takes the hint, snaps out of his daze, and wets the back of his own hand with his tongue. Mickey does his best not to stare.

Ian holds out his hand and lets Mickey pour some salt on it, before Mickey puts the shaker down and picks up the two shot glasses instead.

"Now no more fucking Chad-bullshit," he says firmly, albeit lightly slurred, as he hands Ian a glass. "That's not what we're here for."

Ian nods, and Mickey gives him a pointed eyebrow-raise before grabbing a lime-slice between his fingers. He holds his glass up, an action which Ian mirrors, and then proceeds to, in quick succession, lick the salt off his hand, down the drink, and bite into the lime. He squints a bit at the taste, but it's not that bad. Shit, he doesn't even really like tequila, but Ian wanted it―and what Ian wants, Ian usually gets.

Ian slams the glass down on the bar and discards his lime, scrunching up his face in a slightly exaggerated way, which is more than enough to make Mickey smile.

"You're right," Ian says, meeting his friend's eye. "You're always right, I fucking hate it."

"I know," Mickey says matter-of-factly, putting down his own glass and piece of fruit.

"You're too good to me, Mick," Ian says, placing a heavy hand on Mickey's shoulder. Mickey sways a little under the pressure, his sense balance momentarily chased away by alcohol. "I should be dating you."

Mickey coughs loudly. A piece of lime must have caught in his throat, or something.

"Yeah," he says hoarsely, smacking his chest with his fist as the cough-attack subsides. "Sure."

"I mean it," Ian says, his voice going up a bit as his tone turns indignant. "You'd never do shit like that to me. You actually give a fuck, you wouldn't break my heart."

Mickey leans against the bar, vaguely wondering if it makes him look cool, or just disoriented and unbalanced.

"Don't give me any ideas," he slurs warningly, eyebrows raised. Ian tilts his head, a small, fond smile on his lips.

"Wouldn't that just fix all my problems, though?" he says. "Dating my best friend would be a fucking breeze."

"Well, if you're so into it," Mickey says obnoxiously, "why don't you marry me?"

He immediately regrets saying it, mostly because he sounds like a fucking child, but also because saying it out loud just made his stomach drop. Ian, meanwhile, just stares.

"Now, there's an idea," he says, his tone impossible to determine, and Mickey blinks. He pulls back a little, as though trying to clear through the drunken haze and make sense of what's happening.

"What is?" he asks, and Ian takes a step closer.

"Fucking marrying you," he says loudly over the music, a bit too loudly. "Let's get fucking married, Mick."

Mickey just stares at him. He knows Ian is kidding, but he can still feel his heart suddenly lodged in his throat. His stomach lurches, but in a weirdly good-bad way, and he blames the alcohol.

"What, you wanna fucking marry me?" he says, hopefully successfully hiding his true reaction as he raises his eyebrows and takes on a disbelieving, almost joking tone.

"Yeah," Ian says, full-on grinning now. His grin is contagious, and Mickey can feel himself smiling, too. "Yeah, I fucking want to."

Mickey can't tell if he's joking or not. Hell, he can't tell a lot of things right now, least of all how he himself is actually reacting to this surreal, weird turn of events.

"Well, you're a fucking idiot," he says, but Ian just laughs. He contemplates for a moment, before digging his phone out of his pocket. He holds it up, and Mickey knows what's coming.

"Aw, come on," he whines, turning away, but Ian is insistent.

"This is huge, Mick," Ian says, a laugh in his voice now. "For posterity's sake."

"Fuck posterity," Mickey says, but unable to stop grinning. "Ian, come on."

Ian ignores him, instead holds up his phone with the camera in selfie-mode, and makes sure both him and Mickey are in-frame.

"Big announcement!" Ian says way too loudly as he starts filming, his words slurred. "It's finally happened, the day's finally here, and I just― Mick, you wanna do the honors?"

He turns to Mickey, whose heart is suddenly pounding, palms sweating. He has no idea what's happening, but it feels kind of good.

"Nah, man," he says, waving Ian off. _"_ This is your kind of shit, I don't do announcements."

"Come on," Ian pleads. "You're the one who asked, it's only right."

 _I did fucking ask,_ Mickey thinks. He really asked.

But Mickey still just shakes his head, and Ian caves.

"Alright, fine," he says turning back to the camera. "I'm just gonna say it." He makes a big gesture, almost knocking over a drink again, looking genuinely excited. "We're getting married! Mickey fucking Milkovich, my best friend in the whole wide world, just fucking proposed to me, and I'm so fucking happy."

Mickey's throat is dry, his knees suddenly weak and his stomach fucking _fluttery,_ while this dumb smile feels glued to his face _._ What the hell is happening?

Ian turns to him then, eyes shining and phone still held high. He seems to have momentarily forgotten about the fact that he's filming, and he leans in closer to Mickey, whose heart honest-to-god stops. Ian leans their foreheads together―nothing they haven't done before―and Mickey absently wets his bottom lip with his tongue. He needs Ian to move in closer.

"I'm so fucking happy," Ian repeats, lower this time, and the sound of it sends a warm ripple through Mickey's body. He wants to get closer, eyes flicking to Ian's mouth. He wants to.

He wants to kiss Ian.

The thought lasts only a split second, only up until someone bumps into Ian from behind and him and Mickey are both jostled out of the way, effectively separating them. Ian stops filming with his phone, and while Mickey takes two quick steps back and sucks in at least three deep breaths, Ian looks over the video and smiles. He keeps his eyes glued to the phone, doing god knows what with that video, and Mickey swallows hard. He takes another step back.

 

Mickey opens his eyes, still lying in a thoroughly uncomfortable position on his couch. He glances around the room, blinking, eyes wide, as he fully remembers last night. Or at least the circumstances under which that cursed video was made and posted. He swallows, burrowing his face into the pillow.

_Well, shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this makes sense, and hope you're enjoying it so far.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	3. But I Wanna Get Next To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, new chapter!  
> Title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=16irq0OWapE) (side note; the song doesn't necessarily need to be a soundtrack for the chapter, I just use what I feel fits, lyrics-wise.. Plus, they're good songs)
> 
> Unbeta'd. Enjoy!
> 
> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> .

Mickey had his very first kiss when he was eleven. It was with a friend of Mandy's, some blonde girl named Toni, who was a year older than him. She kept looking at Mickey whenever she came over, eyeing him in a way that he found both confusing and slightly weird, and one night when she was sleeping over at the Milkovich house, she practically ambushed him. Mickey was just sitting in his room, skimming through some porn magazine he'd stolen from Iggy, trying to understand what the big deal about it was, when Toni slipped through the door, unannounced.

Mickey still isn't sure what went down, but suddenly, Toni was sitting next to him on the bed and pressing a brief, thoroughly underwhelming kiss to his lips, before getting up and promptly leaving, as though nothing had happened. Mickey just sat there afterward, knowing that he should feel excited or something about this development, but he felt nothing. In the days, even weeks, that followed, he tried as hard as he could to avoid Toni and her suddenly knowing looks and teasing smiles, up until the point where she actually gave up. It seemed that she felt Mickey wasn't going to take the hint, and that he therefore was too much work to bother. Her backing off brought Mickey nothing but relief, even if his brothers did goad him about it the whole time.

Mickey has rarely kissed anyone since, hasn't particularly wanted to. He just never really saw the point, and it's a bit too intimate for his taste, anyway.

Which is why the notion of wanting to kiss another person, especially a dude, and especially _Ian_ of all people, is so disconcerting.

Mickey doesn't really know what to do about this unexpected turn of events. In the days following his and Ian's night out, Mickey can't really stop thinking about it, even though avoiding stuff like this has always been a particular skill of his. It doesn't matter that he never, not once in three years of friendship, has felt awkward around Ian or about anything concerning the two of them. It doesn't matter, because try as he might, it still feels _off,_ all of a sudden _._ Like wearing a chafing sweater, or a pair of shoes that haven't been broken in yet―like something that's supposed to be comfortable and easy suddenly just _isn't._

At work, he tries to distract himself as best he can. The guys he works with at the garage have never really been the talkative types, so even if they notice his weird mood, they don't mention it. Instead, they just leave him to do his thing, which mostly consists of digging around in engines and lying underneath cars while getting motor oil seemingly soaked into his very bones. It works pretty well, distraction-wise. At least it lets Mickey keep his mind off of anything but what's directly in front of him, which is how he likes it.

Mickey has just barely changed out of his filthy jumpsuit at the end of his shift, when his phone _dings_ with a text message. It's from Mandy, and he groans. She eased up on her jibes and teasing after that first day or so, but she seems to be having way too much fun with it to really stop. Mickey opens up the message, expecting there to be yet another like the first zillion ones, but is surprised to find that that's not the case.

 _Lunch,_ she writes. _I'm buying._

Mickey frowns, glances at the time.

 _It's 5:15,_ he replies.

 _Late lunch,_ Mandy says. _Get out here._

Mickey looks up and takes in the locker room, as though expecting his sister to suddenly, magically, be there. The room is empty apart from him and two of his co-workers though, and he sighs before pocketing his phone. He grabs his stuff and heads out.

Mandy is waiting in the front room of the garage, visibly uncomfortable and annoyed by the stare of a middle-aged man Mickey knows is here to pick up a run-down Volvo no one knows why he doesn't just bother replacing, rather than getting it patched up all the time. As soon as Mandy sees him, Mickey makes his way toward her, and she jumps out of her seat, looking unusually excited.

"Come on," she says, tugging at his sleeve and pulling him towards the front door. Mickey nods goodbye to Dale at the front desk, before letting himself be ushered out of the building. As soon as they're outside in the warm afternoon sun, he yanks his arm free from Mandy's grip.

"The fuck's up with you?" he asks, but Mandy is undeterred. She bounces up and down a little as she walks, an expectant smile on her face, and Mickey pulls back suspiciously. "What?"

"I got a job!" Mandy exclaims, clearly just having failed miserably at keeping the news quiet for the sake of building suspense. "I mean, I already had a job, but this is a better one and I got it."

She watches Mickey, wide-eyed and anticipating his reaction, and his eyebrows go up in surprise.

"Shit, congrats," he says sincerely, as he digs a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "Where? Doing what?"

"It's an office thing," Mandy says, deflating a little bit. "Just filing shit and bringing coffee I think, so not that different from waitressing at the shitty place I just quit like fifteen minutes ago."

"Still," Mickey says, lighting the cigarette and taking a drag. "It's something."

"Yeah." Mandy smiles a little. "I won't have to live off fucking tips anymore, at least."

She snags Mickey's cigarette before he has a chance to stop her, and he watches indignantly as she deeply inhales the smoke.

"So, what," Mickey says as he takes the cigarette back. "You gotta wear a pantsuit or some shit, then?"

Mandy shrugs.

"Don't know, and honestly don't care," she says. "It's a steady, decent paycheck, that's all I need. Might even be able to get a nicer place, if I got a roommate or something."

She raises her eyebrows at her brother in a pointed gesture, but Mickey just shakes his head.

"Fuck, no," he says. "I value my privacy."

"Yeah, whatever," Mandy mutters. She smacks his arm. "But hey, lunch, I'm buying. We gotta celebrate." Her expression turns sly then, and Mickey braces himself, already making a face as a preemptive reaction to what he knows is about to come. "And speaking of celebrating―"

That's as far as Mandy gets.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Mickey says, throwing his hands up. "Would you fucking drop it? It was a fucking joke, and it was days ago, get over it."

Mandy narrows her eyes.

"That was like three _fucks_ in five seconds," she says. "Even for you, that's pushing it. What's up?"

Mickey grunts frustratingly.

"Nothing's _up,_ " he says. "Just getting real tired of this juvenile bullshit."

Mandy presses her lips together. Mickey sees her watching him in the periphery of his vision, and he takes a slow drag on his cigarette, daring to hope that maybe she has finally let this go.

As if he's ever been that lucky.

"Ian and Mickey, sitting in a tree," Mandy starts in an obnoxious, sing-songy voice. "K-I-S-S-I―"

Mickey punches her in the arm so hard that she actually staggers, falling behind with a few steps as they walk down the street leading to Mickey's favorite diner.

"Ow!" Mandy exclaims, rubbing her arm as she catches up and falls back in step with her brother. Mickey glances at her, but it's obvious that she's amused rather than angry, and he half-wishes he had punched her harder. "The fuck's that for? I'm just teasing."

"Yeah, well shut your mouth before I break your nose," Mickey says, words muffled as he keeps the cigarette held between his lips. He knows his tone comes off as secure enough to make most people take the threat seriously, but Mandy, having grown up in the same household, takes it in stride. She just repeats his words in a mocking mumble, still rubbing her no doubt soon-to-be-bruised arm.

"Fuck you," she says lightly. "I don't get what the big deal is, who wouldn't want to be paired up with that hottie, by rumor or otherwise?"

Mickey rolls his shoulders a little, flexing his fingers. He has never been a fan of hearing his sister gush over how very bangable his best friend is, but it's properly bothering him this time, for some reason.

"Because he's my _friend,_ " Mickey enunciates, flicking some ashes off his cigarette. "And, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not into fucking dudes."

Mandy makes a small noise.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it," she says, and Mickey's fingers involuntarily twitch.

Mickey makes the most out of being treated to lunch, selecting the greasiest, most bacon-laden burger on the menu, and Mandy, despite giving him a slight stink-eye for taking such advantage of her generosity, blissfully drops the whole Ian-thing. Instead, the two of them talk about her new job, all the things she hated about her old one, catch up on whether or not Iggy and Colin are staying out of trouble, up until the point where they both decide to part ways and head home. Mandy makes Mickey promise that the two of them and Ian are going to have another long-overdue game night soon, and Mickey complies.

As he makes his way home by himself, he wonders when just the thought of that somehow started making him nervous.

 

* * *

 

"Ugh," Ian says, hours later. Mickey peeks out from behind the open refrigerator door. Ian is sitting in the living room, eyes on his phone, a slightly appalled look on his face.

"What?" Mickey asks, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge. Ian glances up.

"Guess who just texted me," he says dryly, and Mickey shrugs as he shuts the fridge, heading into the living room, carrying the drinks. "Chad."

Mickey frowns.

"Wait," he says, putting the beers down on the coffee table. "Chad? As in, dumped-you-five-fucking-days-ago-so-you-threw-yourself-a-pity-party Chad?"

Ian cocks his head, reaching for the bottle opener lying next to two already emptied beer bottles.

"The very same," he says, opening his drink. "He's been texting me since yesterday, wants to hook up."

Mickey slumps into the couch next to his friend, still frowning, equally confused and annoyed at this news.

"But he dumped you," he says, opening his own beer and leaning back against the backrest of his couch. "Why the fuck's he texting you?"

Ian shrugs lamely, eyes on the TV. They're currently in the middle of a mini-marathon of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ , which they tend to do when they hang out for no reason.

"Like I said," Ian says. "He wants to hook up."

Mickey swirls the beer around in his bottle for a moment, glances at Ian.

"You don't want to, though. Right?" he says, careful not to sound too interested. However, to his surprise, Ian just shrugs again.

"I don't know," he says noncommittally. "Maybe."

Mickey's eyebrows shoot up.

"Wait, what?" he says, any feigned cool gone. "He dumped your ass, and now you wanna hook up with him because what, he _asked_?"

Ian presses his lips together, meets Mickey's eye, and when Mickey's expression of complete, annoyed disbelief doesn't do anything, Mickey opts for exhaling in a huff instead.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, shaking his head as he takes a sip of beer.

"Just bear with me, okay?" Ian says hurriedly. "I mean, it wasn't that bad―" Mickey just snorts. "And in my defense, he is a good fuck, so there's that at least."

"Oh yeah," Mickey says sarcastically. "That makes up for everything."

"Pretty sure you've got a bigger problem with this than I do," Ian says.

"Yeah, well someone has to." The words are out before Mickey has a chance to stop them, but he keeps going. "Just sayin', he's a dick. Apparently. Who gives a shit if he's a good fuck."

Ian watches his friend, as though waiting for his temper to subside, and in a matter of seconds, he speaks again.

"Well," he says, in a much calmer, fonder tone than a moment ago. "One shouldn't underestimate the importance of good sex in a relationship."

Mickey doesn't answer that. In his experience, sex is only ever halfway decent, at best.

Another minute or so passes, Ian and Mickey both staring at the TV, watching Buffy Summers kick some vampire ass, but Mickey isn't really paying attention anymore. Ian's words rattle around in his head, and he picks at the label on his bottle, absentmindedly chewing his bottom lip.

"How does that work, anyway?" he finds himself asking, out of nowhere, and Ian turns to him. He looks confused.

"What?" he says, and Mickey does something between a half-shrug and a cock of his head.

"The... The fucking-thing," he elaborates, as nonchalantly as he can. Ian blinks.

"Um," he says, clearly trying to process the question. "You mean...?"

Mickey raises his eyebrows, prompting a reply, embarrassed and surprised that he even asked the question to begin with, but not about to let Ian know that. Ian lowers his chin a bit, giving Mickey an odd look.

"Mickey," he says, slightly amused. "Are you asking me how gay sex works?"

If Mickey were someone who blushed, he would light up like a fucking red light right about now. But he isn't, so he settles for an offended, casually pissed-off expression instead.

"So what?" he says, and Ian just smiles a little. And okay, maybe Mickey can feel his ears burning a bit now. He scoffs. "Fine. Fuck, whatever. You just keep talking about what a great fuck _Tad_ is, wanted to know what all the hype's about."

"Chad," Ian corrects, and Mickey groans.

"What-fucking-ever." He petulantly turns his attention back to the TV, wishing he could sink through the couch and down through the floor, or just go back and never have asked that dumb fucking question in the first place. "Forget I fucking asked."

"No, I'm sorry, I just―" Ian hurriedly starts, clearly noticing Mickey's genuinely offended reaction. "I'm sorry, okay? It's just that... Well, you've literally never asked me something like that before. Like, _ever._ Just a bit surprised, that's all."

Mickey chews the inside of his cheek, slowly turning back to Ian. _Shit_ , he's got that puppydog-look, and Mickey finds himself immediately settling down. He sighs heavily, relaxing his body, having been unaware that it was tensed up to begin with.

"So," Ian says after a few moments. "You really wanna know?"

Mickey deliberates. This is his out, his chance to just give up on this endeavor and pretend it never did happen.

"Yeah," he mumbles in a flat voice, with a shrug. "Whatever."

He avoids Ian's eyes, but can still see the redhead nod out of the corner of his eye.

"Okay," Ian says, as though thinking of where to begin. "Well, it's a bit more... complicated, than with a girl, I think. There's more... preparation involved."

Mickey takes a deep breath, suddenly torn between incredible discomfort and unfamiliar interest. He takes a few deep drinks of his beer, trying to enhance the light, pleasant buzz he's got going, as to make this easier.

"I mean," Ian continues. "I'm a top, so I don't really have to prepare anything, but the other guy does."

Mickey wants him to continue, but he doesn't, so Mickey opens his stupid mouth and asks.

"What do you do, then?" he says, sinking a bit further down into the couch, eyes on the TV.

"Well," Ian says. "I... help out."

Mickey telepathically urges him to elaborate, but the fucker _doesn't_ , and it forces Mickey to fucking ask _again._

"Like how?" he says. _Shit_ , _where is this coming from?_

"With my fingers," Ian replies, unabashedly this time. Mickey knows for a fact that he's way too comfortable about sex and everything about it, and that whatever reservations he's having right now are for Mickey's sake―they've never really talked much about sex in general, mostly due to their vastly different preferences. It seems that those reservations are disappearing though, and Ian talks more easily as he continues. "And lube. Sometimes other stuff." Mickey doesn't ask this time, even though he's bursting with curiosity. Thankfully, Ian gets it. "Like tongue."

The heat that suddenly hits Mickey somewhere in the gut comes out of nowhere, and he swallows hard. Okay, this is not what he signed up for. He doesn't need to imagine those things―because he inevitably _is_ , for some insane reason―and he definitely doesn't need, or want, to imagine them going on between Ian and some guy. Some _other_ guy.

"It can take a while," Ian continues, oblivious to Mickey's weirdly visceral reaction. "But that's usually the fun part. Just drawing it out, making it last, then just going for it and―"

Mickey abruptly straightens in his seat.

"Yeah, okay," he says, with feigned nonchalance. "Sounds complicated." He downs the last of his beer and gets up from the couch. "I'mma take a piss."

Ian looks a little surprised at the sudden halt to their conversation, but doesn't seem to dwell on it. He just nods.

"Yeah," he says, completely unbothered. "Sure."

Mickey walks past the TV, Ian leaning his body pointlessly as the screen is momentarily blocked from view, and Mickey heads into the bathroom. He locks the door behind him and takes a deep breath, leaning with his hands against the sink. He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth as he swallows dryly, willing his blood to do anything but stay in his crotch-area right now.

A hard-on has never been more unwelcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, Mickey is a mechanic here too. I don't know why, it just feels like a job he would have, I like it.)


	4. Howlin' For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> Sorry for the wait, I'm really trying to write this more regularly, hopefully I'll get my shit together soon.  
> Anyway, thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, they really mean the world to me <3 even if I don't reply to most of it (because I'm lazy af), I do read them all and they make me grin like a crazy person.
> 
> Chapter title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bSCsoQ87MQ8), and the chapter is (as usual) unbeta'd. Enjoy!

Mickey supposes that there's a first time for everything, but he never really expected there to be one in this case―and he is postponing said first time for as long as he possibly can.

As he sits at his kitchen table, however, staring into space and absently chewing on a bite of his breakfast Pop-Tart, he's starting to feel concerned that he might not be able to postpone it for much longer. Okay, maybe _concerned_ is a strong word. Aware. Conscious of. Either way, he is not about to jerk off to anything even remotely involving Ian. It's just not going to happen.

After their conversation last night, Mickey spent most of the remainder of Ian's visit thinking about saggy old ladies, stray hairs in food, and guys wearing flip-flops (ugh), all in a valiant effort to will his boner away. It worked pretty well. Ian didn't bring the whole gay-sex-thing up again, probably because he could tell that Mickey had reached his breaking point, and it made all the difference. By the time Ian left, Mickey was back to his old self.

That is, until he briefly thought about the embarrassing gay-sex-thing Ian had talked about, and suddenly all that unwelcome, physical interest came rushing right back. It took every ounce of willpower he had to just go to bed and keep his hands and his attention as far away from his semi-hard dick as possible.

It wasn't a perfect plan, but he managed. How was he supposed to know that the frustration would carry over into the next day?

How the hell did this happen, anyway? When, exactly, did he go from seeing Ian as nothing but a guy he happens to―platonically―place in the same realm of importance as his sister, to thinking about him and getting all hot and weird?

Maybe it's just a temporary thing, because of that night at the bar. Maybe it's just one of those placebo things, where the idea of someone liking you gets planted in your head, and makes you think you like them back. Mickey remembers reading something about that, in some science-y article online, forever ago. It could happen. It's much more plausible, at least, than the idea that Mickey is _actually_ attracted to Ian, his best friend, a fucking _guy._

This is the worst.

When he gets to work, Mickey is presented with a thoroughly unimpressive Toyota to work on, the tail lights of which have clearly been neglected for far too long―at least according to Dale, who mentions that the car's owner has gotten three tickets because of it, already. It's something for Mickey to do, at least, but it's nowhere near enough. He has never found himself so preoccupied with one thing before, not like this, and throughout the day, Ian is still at the back of his mind. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was a crush, which it obviously isn't. It feels more like an obsession.

When he finally gets home at the end of the day, Mickey is buzzing. He feels on edge, like his skin is crawling and itching, and he grabs a cold beer from his fridge. He pops it open, takes a few deep swigs of it, and closes his eyes as he leans against the kitchen counter, letting the soothing effects take hold. It's pretty hot outside today, and if nothing else, the distance between the comfortable coolness of the garage to Mickey's apartment left him uncomfortably sweaty and parched. His apartment isn't much better; he can feel his clothes sticking to his skin as the space has been heated up all day through his windows, like a fucking green house.

He finishes off the beer and heads for the shower.

The rush of water is welcome after a long day's work, washing off the sweat and grime and cooling his skin. Mickey even closes his eyes for a little while, lathering himself up and just savoring the feel of it. One major perk of living alone is definitely having your own shower, being able to stay in it for as long as you like without having to bother with things like time limits or schedules, or hot water running out.

Back when Mickey first moved away from home, he and Mandy lived together for a little while. Well, more accurately, she crashed on the couch of his shitty first apartment until she got a job and earned enough to get her own place, which turned out to be equally shitty, but still. After growing up in the Milkovich household, both siblings found themselves torn between wanting constant company, and wanting a kind of privacy and stillness that they had never really known. They both eventually felt that privacy trumped any cramped living arrangements, and settled for one at best mediocre apartment each, rather than a slightly better one together.

So these days, Mickey gets his shower, his space, his food, all to himself. Hell, Ian probably spends more time using all those things than Mandy does, which used to strike Mickey as weird. Ian would, back when they first started hanging out, just drop by whenever, and waltz around Mickey's apartment like he lived there. He definitely has a way of making himself comfortable and essentially forcing his presence and friendship onto you, but where it used to drive Mickey slightly crazy, he wouldn't have it any other way, at this point. After three years of wearing him down, Ian has grown on him to the point of being a fixed occurrence in his world.

So yeah, Ian has occasionally used his shower, just like Mickey has used Ian's.

He keeps his eyes closed as he thinks about it, tilts his head back to let the water soak through his hair properly. He can't even remember all the times Ian has used his shower; the morning after a drunken night and sleeping on Mickey's couch, just before an impromptu coffee date or meeting up with his family, when Mickey's place is closer and Ian has just come back from a run. Basically, anytime Ian sees fit. Mickey has even come home to find a note on his coffee table, once or twice, with Ian saying that he used up the last of this or that and that he'll pay Mickey back for it. It's on those occasions that Mickey grumbles to himself and wonders why the hell he ever gave Ian a key to his apartment. The only other person that has one is Mandy, and that's just because she's family.

It seems that Ian has wormed his way into that category as well, over the years, for both Mickey and Mandy. Mickey still isn't quite sure how that happened.

The last time Ian used Mickey's shower was a little over a week ago. Mickey remembers, because it was on one of those impromptu-coffee-date occasions. And Mickey is almost entirely sure that it was a coffee date with _Chad._

Fucking Chad. Seriously, that can't actually be his real name? Mickey has never even met the guy, and he still hates his guts. Ian seemed excited about it though, going through Mickey's bathroom and apartment like a ginger tornado, borrowing some hair gel, some mouthwash, all while Mickey just sat there on the couch, trying to watch his crime shows.

"How do I look?" Ian asked, finally stopping his constant movement and placing himself right next to the TV, so as to really grab Mickey's attention. He needn't have made the effort; Mickey has always had a hard time focusing on other things whenever Ian is somewhere even within the vicinity of his line of sight.

That said, Mickey remembers having to really downplay his verdict on Ian's appearance, because the guy did look really good. Due to the uncountable amount of times Ian has crashed at his place for some reason or other, Ian has snuck in a small stash of clothes in a box at the bottom of Mickey's closet. It took Mickey several weeks after it started to even notice, but Ian pleaded with his fucking puppy-dog eyes ("It's just a few shirts and stuff, it's no big deal."), and Mickey saw no reason to turn the idea down.

So, for his coffee date (Mickey was, and still is, pretty sure it was just a booty call), Ian made use of his clothes-stash and cleaned up real nice, considering he'd been sweaty and gross from his run just fifteen minutes earlier. He looked great, at least from what Mickey could tell during his very brief ocular inspection.

"Good," he just said flatly, nodding, and Ian raised his eyebrows at him, as though waiting for more. When nothing more came, he sighed.

"Alright," he said. "I trust you."

Mickey only glanced after him as he gathered up his things and got dressed to leave. He had a strange pit in his stomach, one he always gets whenever Ian goes out with some guy. It's a protective thing, he has always told himself. He gets the same about Mandy when she hooks up with one scumbag after another.

Okay, so maybe it's not exactly the same. But it's the only thing that makes sense.

"Don't forget protection," Mickey said dryly as Ian was about to leave, eyes on the TV. He's not sure why he said it, it just seemed like he should. He could hear Ian scoff from the hall.

"Or what?" he said. "You gonna hook me up?"

Mickey glanced at him, catching a glimpse of that familiar, slightly teasing smile.

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" he asked, and Ian tilted his head.

"Relax," he said. "I wouldn't put that kind of responsibility on you. And besides, it's not like you've got any condoms lying around, anyway."

Mickey frowned then, turning his attention fully to his friend.

"Meaning?" he said.

"Meaning," Ian said, smiling a little wider, knowing that he'd succeeded in riling Mickey up a bit, "that out of the two of us, I'm pretty sure I'm the one who actually gets laid."

Mickey gave him an exasperated look of _come on, really?,_ only prompting another teasing look from Ian.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Ian said lightly. "The spinster-thing is kinda hot, I'm sure there are tons of girls who are into that―"

"Get the fuck outta here," Mickey cut him off, and Ian just laughed as he walked out of the apartment, closing the front door behind him. As he left, Mickey had a small, fond smile on his face. It was only when he remembered where Ian was actually going, and whom he was seeing, and what they were going to do together, that the smile disappeared and that pit settled back in his stomach. He didn't like it.

He still doesn't like it. As he stands in his shower, remembering that occasion, he tries to revisit that unsettled feeling he had, as though it might make more sense this time. And it does. He hates to admit it, but it does. As he thinks back, it's not protectiveness he feels, it's... jealousy. Jealousy at Ian going off to get off with some random guy, and annoyance at him using Mickey's shower and Mickey's stuff to get ready, before asking Mickey's opinion about how he looks. Asking Mickey, to make sure that he looks good, before hooking up and doing god knows what with fucking _Chad._

 _He's a good fuck_. That's what Ian said. Chad is a good fuck. Mickey can't help but wonder what he does that's so good.

How would Ian like it, anyway? He's a giant, sappy romantic, so he probably likes all that soft and slow shit. Then again, Mickey has actually fought the guy a few times, albeit not too seriously, and he knows for a fact that when it comes down to it, Ian Gallagher is anything but soft. He's strong, and he takes the lead, uncompromising when he wants to be, making it all the more fun when Mickey holds his own.

Maybe that's how he does it, how he likes it? He's a top, apparently, he's said so himself. Mickey is no expert on how dudes actually fuck, but he knows the basics, and he sure as shit knows the difference between a top and a bottom, something which has been impossible not to learn during a three-year friendship with an openly gay guy who has no qualms about discussing his love (and sex) life whenever he feels like it.

So what does Chad do that's so great? There can't be that much to it, right? Just taking it, letting Ian do all the work, just... feeling. Whatever that feels like. It can't be very pleasant. How could it be, having something up your ass? Then again, the tons of people who actually do seem to enjoy it would probably beg to differ.

Mickey exhales heavily, eyes closed as he leans with his forearms against the cool tiles of the bathroom walls, letting the warm water rush down his back.

Ian has a strong grip, Mickey knows this. Big hands, strong arms, tall and built, like a fucking lumberjack, easily able to pin someone down and keep them there. Mickey vaguely wonders if that's what he does, if that's how it works, if Chad just lets him hold him down and fuck him.

The sudden surge of heat that flares up somewhere in Mickey's gut comes out of nowhere, taking him by surprise and making him inhale slowly, deeply, as he grits his teeth. _Shit_ , _not now._ He's not doing this. He is _not_ doing this.

His resolve doesn't seem to matter though, because he can't really help the way he slides one hand down along his stomach and in between his legs, hesitantly, almost tentatively, trailing his fingers along his quickly hardening cock. He exhales slowly, relaxing and tensing up all at the same time. He licks his lips, eyes still closed, forehead leaning against the arm still holding him up against the wall.

What would Ian sound like? It's not like Mickey has ever heard him have sex (which is honestly a little surprising, considering their lack of boundaries for these past three years), so he doesn't really have anything to go on. He has seen him work out though, heard the way he grunts when he's lifting weights, the way he lets out a pleased sigh, almost a moan, when he's finally done, his heavy breathing when he's been running. Mickey kind of hates himself for it, but he brings out those memories―and it's clearly enough, because he's so hard and so sensitive when he slowly starts stroking himself, that he hisses in a sharp breath between his teeth. _Fuck,_ it feels good.

He hates it. He hates how those imaginary sounds egg him on, how he lets the thought of strong hands on his hips slip in among the rest of the sensations. He hates how it makes him stroke faster, thrusting into his hand, letting his mouth fall open in a low, breathy moan.

 _Fuck_ , no, it's not about Ian. This is _not_ about Ian, it's just about some random guy.

 _Like that makes it any better?_ Shit. Mickey swallows dryly, trying to get his head on straight. It's nearly impossible; with all that build-up and delaying and desperate attempts at thinking about other things for the past twenty-four hours, while Ian has inevitably been on his mind, there is no fucking way Mickey is going to be able to ignore this.

It gets worse, better, more intense, Mickey's moans getting louder and deeper as he keeps going, keeps indulging in this vague fantasy in his head. It's not even a fantasy, just a jumbled mess of sounds and imaginary touches, the phantom sensation of long fingers sliding down his spine and hot breath in his ear. It's not much, but fuck, it's enough. It's enough to make him come so hard his knees almost give out, enough to make him practically cry out into the echoing space of the bathroom. Before he knows it, Mickey is a spent, shaky mess, holding himself up against the wall with all he's got.

After several, long seconds of heavy breathing, he finally opens his eyes. The fantasy is gone, reality settling back in. He's alone, with only the sound of the shower to block out his own panting breaths, and with a steady beat of rushing water against his back, rather than those steady, strong hands he could have sworn he just felt there. He lamely slams his fist against the wall, all the strength momentarily drawn out of him.

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

"You fucking cheater!"

Mandy shoves Ian so hard he collides with Mickey, Mickey smushed against the corner of the couch from the onslaught of Ian's heavy frame. He feels his throat catch, but thankfully, Ian moves away again before he has time to properly panic. Ian is laughing, too involved in his exchange with Mandy to notice his friend suddenly tense like a live wire right next to him.

"Oh, fuck off," Ian says, laughter softening his words. "I did not cheat."

"Really?" Mandy says. "Then explain to me how you just beat my ass with barely any life left."

She gestures at the TV, where a giant K.O. is plastered on the screen, Ian's video game character idly standing by in a victorious pose, while Mandy's lies defeated next to it.

"It's called teleportation," Ian defends himself. "It's a move, not cheating."

"Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know that?" Mandy exclaims. "Mine couldn't fucking _teleport._ "

"That's because you weren't paying attention," Ian teases, "and you picked the coolest-looking one instead of looking at their skills. Don't blame me for your failure."

Mandy punches him in the arm, and Ian retaliates by poking her in the ribs, immediately making her drop her controller as she throws a giggling fit.

"Asshole!" she says, her laughter not doing much to back up the insult. She desperately tries to deflect Ian's attack, but without much success. "Mickey! Mickey, help!"

Mickey just watches them from his end of the couch, deliberately ignoring the way Ian's t-shirt tightens in a much too flattering way over his back as he moves. He chews his lip.

"Not my problem," he says in a bored tone. "You got yourself into this mess."

Mandy lets out something like a growl as Ian proceeds to properly tickle her.

"Worst brother ever," she says in the middle of her laughter. "You will pay!"

"Doubt it." Mickey folds his arms over his chest, leaning back against the couch, eyes now on the TV. It's after a second or so that he notices how Mandy has stopped laughing―and it's only a few seconds after that that he realizes he noticed it too late.

"I got him!" Mandy exclaims gleefully from behind the couch, grabbing Mickey's arms and pulling them up above his head, standing up and holding them in place with her freakish strength. Mickey barely has time to struggle, or even register what's happening, before Ian attacks from the side.

Mickey has a moment to curse the flawless teamwork his sister and best friend seem to possess when they actually want to, until he feels Ian's hands find their way to every weak spot they know he has, tickling up along his sides and making him squirm. Mickey rues the day Mandy divulged to Ian how ticklish he is, and he struggles against his sister's grip in an attempt to break free. When he fails, he ends up flailing his legs instead, all while Mandy laughs her head off and makes him reluctantly crack a smile, himself. He hates them both for doing this, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't warm his heart a bit.

That's when Ian decides to incapacitate him further, and straddles his lap, effectively pinning him down where he sits. It's nothing he hasn't done before; their playfighting (that's what Mandy affectionately and annoyingly calls it) can get pretty intense, and pretty physical, so Mickey can't really blame him. But this time, it suddenly throws Mickey off completely, and he feels a surge in the pit of his stomach, his mind racing.

_Ian is really close, Ian smells really nice, Ian's hands are on my chest, Ian is straddling me, Ian is smiling, Ian feels really good―_

Mickey isn't sure how it happens, but his fight-or-flight instinct is suddenly activated and hits him with full force. In just a second, he has wrenched his arms free from Mandy's grip and shoved Ian off his lap as hard as he possibly can, making him fall back against the coffee table. He hears Mandy gasp in surprise when Ian's back connects with the table's edge―Mickey can't even articulate the relief he feels when he realizes hedidn't hit his head―and he slumps on the floor with a groan, coffee table pushed back towards the TV from the impact.

Mickey doesn't move for a second or two, hands still raised defensively in front of him, and he takes a few quick, deep breaths. Mandy rushes to Ian's side, crouching down beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"You okay?" she asks, ignoring her brother. Mickey is grateful. He feels weirdly overwhelmed, panicked, even ashamed, and he swallows hard. Ian sits up straighter, nodding.

"Yeah," he says with a groan. "I'm fine."

He moves his shoulder a bit and hisses under his breath, and Mickey's stomach plummets at the sound. He reanimates, suddenly desperate to leave. Except he can't, of course, because it's his fucking apartment.

"Sorry," he mumbles as he gets up from the couch. Ian and Mandy glance up at him, but he barely catches it. Instead, he quickly heads toward the kitchen, which is the only escape route he can think of. Behind him, he can hear Mandy asking Ian again if he really is okay, helping him back up onto the couch, by the sound of it, and Mickey slips through the kitchen doorway to lean against the counter, out of sight.

 _Shit. Shit_ , he did not mean to do that. Ian is fine, sure, but that wasn't fucking playfighting. Mickey wanted to hurt him, just wanted to push him off and get his hands off of him at any cost. He panicked.

Mandy does nothing to disguise her approach, or her mood, when she suddenly comes up behind Mickey and smacks him in the arm.

"The fuck's wrong with you?" she practically hisses, and Mickey rubs his assaulted arm, frowning. "You've been acting weird all night."

"The fuck's it to you?" Mickey retorts. Mandy gives him an incredulous look.

"Are you serious, right now?" she says. "That was a dick move in there. You know Ian's gonna be all hurt about it, even if he pretends he isn't."

"Not my problem," Mickey says, and Mandy doesn't even wait a second before this time smacking him in the head. "Ow, fuck!"

"You are being an asshole," she enunciates. "I don't know what's been up with you lately, but stop taking it out on him."

She gestures toward the living room, from which Mickey can hear the sounds of the TV. He supposes Ian is either playing by himself while he waits for the siblings' return, or he's watching some cutscene of the game. Mickey hates how guilty it makes him feel.

"I didn't do shit," he says, masking his distress. "Get off my ass."

"Mickey." Mandy's stern tone grabs his attention. "He's your friend. Your best friend, and pretty much your only friend, if we're being totally honest. You can't really afford to be a dick to him. Not that you should, either way, because he's fucking awesome, and I don't get what he sees in you." Mickey wishes he knew the answer to that, himself. "So what's your fucking problem, right now?"

Mickey doesn't reply. Hell, he's not even sure himself, so how the fuck is he supposed to explain to anyone else? Even if he were sure, he's not sure he could say it out loud. What's he supposed to say?

_I'm mean to him because I like him? Being touched by him makes me feel weird, and I hate it? I can't stop thinking about him, and it pisses me off? I jerked off to him in the shower yesterday?  
_

Yeah, like that's going to happen. Like Mandy would understand, like anyone would. Like Ian would. He would probably just laugh it off, or worse, push Mickey away once he realized that his best friend suddenly had a hard-on for him. Mickey's not risking that, no fucking way.

Mickey shakes his head.

"Nothing," he says, with a lame shrug. "Just... Bad day, that's all."

Mandy's expression softens into something a bit more sympathetic. She sighs.

"Well, then make nice," she says, cocking her head toward the living room. "Hug it out, or whatever it is you guys do."

Mickey can't really explain the way he feels simultaneously terrified and elated at the very prospect of hugging Ian, all of a sudden. He nods, rolls his lips over his teeth as he presses them together.

"Yeah," he says quietly.

"Good." Mandy seems satisfied. She looks around the kitchen before grabbing a random takeout menu off the fridge and making her way back out into the living room, a smile now plastered on her face. "Who's hungry?"

Mickey relaxes as soon as she's gone, letting out a heavy exhale as he thumbs at his bottom lip, thinking. Make nice, pretend nothing is up with him, that nothing is wrong.

He grabs a few beers from the fridge, for lack of anything else, before exiting the kitchen to rejoin the two most important people in his life, waiting on the living room couch, while he really, really hopes that Ian is okay. He takes a deep breath.

 _Pretend_. Yeah, he can do that.


	5. I Find No Comfort In What My Mind Can't Comprehend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> You guys are amazing. Your encouragement and feedback make me want to write, thank you.
> 
> Unbeta'd chapter, with a title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AvwgHm1qSlY). Enjoy!

Over the next couple of days, Mickey feels a little awkward. Ian wasn't actually hurt by the unexpected shove, and they didn't bring it up again during the rest of the night, but still. Mickey feels horribly guilty, and he can't even really pinpoint why.

Ian didn't do anything wrong, not really. So he climbed onto Mickey's lap and touched him everywhere, it's no big deal. It's not his fault Mickey got all hot and bothered about it and briefly fantasized about ramming their mouths together during the split second Ian was close enough to his face. It's not his fault that Mickey reacted like a fucking child and did what he did, effectively plunging the rest of the night into a kind of weird mood. Mandy was there to salvage most of it, thankfully, and Ian was quickly distracted by both her and the food they ended up having delivered, too much so to notice Mickey just trying to curl up into a non-existent ball right next to him.

It gave Mickey a chance to cool the fuck down, preventing any more weird, defensive outbursts. That doesn't mean he's not still thinking about it, in the back of his mind.

He exits the garage where he works, having just finished his shift for the day, and he deliberates whether or not he should go home or head to Ian's place. Ian wanted to hang out, and Mickey's planning on going there anyway, but he feels like maybe he should shower or something first. He makes his way underneath the L, putting on his jacket as he goes. It's a bit cooler outside today; the gray sky tells him it actually might rain, and he hurries his steps a bit, hoping to find cover before that happens. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking the time.

He finished up his shift a bit earlier than usual, so he'd have plenty of time to head home before going to Ian's, and still not be late―not that either of them is particularly punctual, or thinks about that much. He should do that. But just as he turns to head down the street he always takes, every day, he slows down.

He really wants to see Ian. He doesn't know why, and he doesn't really care, but he suddenly feels like two days is far too long to go without hanging out with the guy. Not to mention, he's starving, and could really use some food. He chews his bottom lip, slips his phone back into his pocket, and heads the other way.

Ian's apartment is only a little bit further away from work than Mickey's own, and it doesn't take more than fifteen minutes to get there, but the sky still has time to open up and let loose a minor waterfall. It soaks Mickey within seconds, and he grumbles and curses to himself as he finally reaches Ian's apartment building, before using his spare key to open the front door and quickly head inside. The elevator is broken, as usual, but Ian lives only on the fourth floor, so Mickey braves the stairs and tries to suppress the way he's annoyingly out of breath when he reaches the right landing, half-heartedly ruffling his wet hair as though it will make it dry faster.

He doesn't even bother knocking; he and Ian have long since given up that courtesy, and Ian is expecting him, anyway. Instead, he just unlocks the apartment door with his spare key and steps inside, already tugging off his drenched jacket as he goes.

"Hey," he calls out into the apartment, shutting the front door behind him and slipping his keys back into his pocket. "So I'm thinking Chine―"

He takes one step out of the hallway and looks up, the sight awaiting him on the living room couch enough to make his brain short-circuit.

"Shit," Ian mutters, clearly taken by surprise, while he tugs up the hem of his sweatpants and hurriedly sits up straight. Meanwhile, Mickey can't move, frozen in place as he tries to process what he just witnessed. "Sorry 'bout that."

Ian doesn't seem too bothered about it, just maybe a little embarrassed, and Mickey swallows dryly.

"You weren't supposed to show for another twenty minutes," Ian continues sheepishly, while Mickey just stares at him, a strange ringing in his ears. His chest is heaving, he realizes, and he wonders how much of mess he must look, soaking wet and out of breath.

"Yeah, " he finally musters. "Got off early."

He curses himself for using that particular phrase, and Ian catches it, making him smile. Within seconds, he's clearly already more relaxed about this than Mickey.

"Yeah," he says, with a small laugh. "Apparently."

"Would've stuck around at work if I'd known you were busy rubbing one out," Mickey says, mostly going through the motions and saying what he knows he would normally say in this situation. It's not the first time he has accidentally walked in on Ian in the middle of getting himself off, Ian has walked in on Mickey once or twice too, but still. Instead of doing the whole appalled, exaggerated thing he usually does, where he throws something at his friend and tells him to cover the fuck up, Mickey can't move.

"That's considerate," Ian says dryly. He seems to notice Mickey's reaction then, and his smile falters a bit, in favor of a small frown. "Hey, you okay?"

Mickey's palms are sweating, an uncomfortable warmth in his gut. He forces himself to nod.

"Yeah," he says, almost convincingly. "Yeah, just... Might have to wash my fucking eyes with bleach now."

 _Success._ Ian scoffs and rolls his eyes, smiling as he gets up from the couch and makes his way over to Mickey.

"Nothing you haven't seen before, douchebag," he says, shoving Mickey with his shoulder as he passes him by. Mickey nearly flinches at the touch.

"Don't mean I like it," he automatically retorts, slowly settling back into their ordinary rapport. He turns around to hang up his jacket, which is still hanging limply from his hand, while Ian heads toward the bathroom. "And wash your fucking hands."

Ian flips him off over his shoulder, before entering the bathroom and closing the door. It's only then Mickey relaxes, if only slightly, letting out a heavy exhale as he puts his jacket on one of the hooks in the hall.

He didn't see anything. Ian had his hand down his pants, the hem just barely covering it all, so it's not like it was that big a deal. And Ian is right, either way, it's nothing Mickey hasn't seen before.

But that doesn't mean he didn't catch the look on Ian's face, the split second before he realized Mickey was there, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, chest heaving with every low, sighing moan. It lasted for only a moment, but it was enough, preserved in Mickey's mind like a crisp snapshot, full of detail. And _shit_ , if it wasn't the hottest thing he has ever seen.

By the time Ian returns from the bathroom, Mickey has pulled himself together, mostly at least. He's casually leaning against the kitchen counter, eyeing a takeout menu he grabbed from the pile of them Ian keeps next to the microwave, so when Ian walks into the kitchen, Mickey is busy studying the selection of food. He doesn't mention to Ian that he has already skimmed through it four times, barely catching a word of it.

"Chinese?" Ian asks, and Mickey looks up. Ian looks all composed and decent; you could never guess he was in the middle of pleasuring himself just minutes ago.

"Yeah," Mickey says, Ian leaning against the counter across from him, folding his arms. "Why, you want something else?"

Ian shakes his head.

"No," he says. "Chinese is good."

Mickey nods, looking back down at the menu.

"What happened to you?" Ian asks after a few moments, and Mickey meets his eye. Ian gestures at him. "You go for a swim on the way over here, or something?"

Mickey glances down at himself, his soaked t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin. His jeans aren't as bad, and he moves a hand up to pull through his hair.

"Fucking monsoon outside," he says. "Nearly drowned."

Ian laughs.

"I can see that," he says. "You wanna borrow something?"

Normally, Mickey would probably say yes, even despite the taunting that usually comes from Ian whenever Mickey wears something of his. Because unlike Ian, Mickey hasn't claimed a closet space for his own here, and unlike Ian, Mickey isn't a giant, so Ian's clothes tend to look comically big on him.

This time though, he feels inexplicably weird about accepting Ian's offer. The thought of undressing here and putting on something of Ian's―something that smells like him―feels off.

"Nah," he says, shaking his head. "I'm good. It's just the shirt, anyway."

"And the hair," Ian points out. "It's gonna get all cute and wavy once it dries."

Mickey self-consciously pats down his dark hair, hating the fact that Ian is half-right. It does tend to take on a life of its own when it gets wet, especially nowadays when his undercut requires the long strands to lie smooth and slicked-back to look good. He's going to look ridiculous if he doesn't do something about it.

He also tries to ignore Ian's use of the word _cute._

"Fuck off," he mutters, earning nothing but a fond smile from his friend, and they go back to deciding what to order for dinner.

Approximately two-thirds of an _X-Files_ episode later, the food arrives at the door, and Mickey gets it, paying the delivery guy before pushing the front door shut and heading into the living room. He's already peeking into the bag when he reaches the couch, too busy locating his meal to notice Ian's amused, fond expression.

"Everything there?" Ian asks jokingly, and Mickey grunts in confirmation, grabbing his food and handing Ian the bag. Ian takes it, while Mickey gets his chopsticks and starts devouring his dinner.

"Easy," Ian says, side-eyeing Mickey's feral eating habits, while getting started on his own meal at a slightly slower, more controlled pace. "It's not going anywhere."

Mickey just grunts again, leaning back on the couch and watching the TV as he stuffs his face with greasy noodles and fried chicken. He's too hungry to really pay attention to what Ian is saying, and it's only when Ian gets up and returns a minute later that he snaps out of it, mostly due to what Ian brought back with him. He narrows his eyes at his friend, who grabs a dumpling and picks up a bottle of Tabasco sauce he just got from the kitchen, only to slather the dumpling in the red, spicy substance like it's no big deal. Mickey frowns.

"The fuck are you doing?" he asks, mouth full, and Ian stops in mid-motion, dumpling halfway to his mouth. He blinks innocently.

"Eating," he says, and when Mickey eyes his food suspiciously, he elaborates, shrugging. "It's a thing I discovered recently, it's pretty delicious."

Mickey finishes chewing, chopsticks poised over the box in his hand.

"Discovered?" he says. "How the fuck do you _discover_ something like that?"

Ian shrugs again.

"I don't know," he says. "It was a suggestion I got."

He proceeds to take a bite out of the dumpling, holding it between his fingers, and Mickey nearly flinches at how gross the food combination looks. At the same time, he does his best to not dwell on who suggested it, if said person was male, and whether or not Ian was, or is, fucking him.

God, he needs to stop.

"Fuck that," he mutters, getting a piece of chicken and putting it in his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ian looking at him in favor of watching Scully being a sassmaster on the TV. He holds out his hand, and Mickey turns to him. Ian is holding out the half-eaten dumpling, the thing dripping with Tabasco sauce, and Mickey swallows down his food, eyeing Ian's offer.

"What are you doing?" he asks apprehensively.

"Broadening your horizons," Ian says. "Try it."

Mickey frowns at him, glances at the dumpling again, then back at Ian's face.

"My horizons are just fine, thank you," he says, but Ian has no patience for it.

"Just eat the fucking dumpling, Mick," he says, and Mickey isn't sure why, but he does. Instead of just using his chopsticks or something to grab the dumpling and put it in his own mouth, he leans forward and takes it from Ian's fingers, only realizing what he's done once he sees the look on Ian's face. He looks oddly surprised, eyes on Mickey's lips as he takes the dumpling between his teeth and into his mouth, and Mickey kind of hates how that look makes him find the hot sauce on Ian's fingers suddenly weirdly tempting to lick off.

That's not creepy at all.

He pulls back, chews the food and considers the taste, before scrunching up his face a bit.

"That's fucking disgusting," he says, mouth full, before swallowing the thing down anyway and smacking his lips. He knew it was going to be gross.

Ian doesn't look very disappointed at the verdict, mostly amused, and he lowers his hand as he watches Mickey's reaction.

"Well," he says, grabbing a napkin to wipe his fingers clean, apparently already over Mickey's odd choice to actually be sort of fed by him. "We can't all be evolved."

"How about you shut the fuck up," Mickey says without bite, digging around in the takeout box with his chopsticks, effectively avoiding Ian's gaze.

 _What the fuck was that?_ He ate that damn thing out of Ian's fucking _hand,_ like it was no big deal. Shit, he must be going completely crazy.

Ian didn't seem to mind, though. Of course he didn't. Ian never seems to really mind anything Mickey does.

They don't talk for a few minutes, and it's only when the credits start rolling of the current episode they're watching that Mickey says anything.

"Hey, man," he says, out of nowhere. "Sorry about the other day."

Ian frowns, turning to him, while the next episode automatically starts playing in the background.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"The other night," Mickey clarifies. "When I shoved you. Didn't mean to do that."

He's not sure why he's saying it now, why it even matters. Ian has probably forgotten all about it, and Mickey normally would, too. He just feels like he needs to say something.

Ian mulls it over for a moment, before breaking into an easy smile.

"It's okay," he says. "It happens, right? Reflexes, and all that shit. I should've known tickling you was a suicide mission, I never learn."

Mickey huffs a small laugh, and the two of them go back to watching TV in silence. After a little while, Mickey turns to glance at his friend, can't really help himself. Ian is slowly putting rice into his mouth, eyes slightly widened as something tense goes on in the show, and Mickey can't stop watching him. Ian has a great profile, red hair swept back and to the side, a single strand falling down over his eyes and making him awkwardly twitch his head to get it out of the way, rather than freeing up his hands for a moment to deal with it. It's kind of adorable, and Mickey feels a tiny smile tug at his mouth.

_He's so fucking pretty._

Mickey has always been objectively aware that Ian is a good-looking guy, but this is different. He feels like he could stare at him for hours.

Thankfully, Ian glances at him then, and huffs out a small, startled laugh at Mickey's expression.

"What?" he says, mouth full. "Is there something on my face?"

Mickey swallows, shakes his head.

"Nah," he says, deliberately looking down at his box of takeout and avoiding Ian's gaze. He feels Ian shift beside him, settling back down comfortably against the couch cushions, and neither of them says another word.

 

* * *

 

By the time Mickey comes home that night, when he steps inside the front door and into the familiar safety of his own apartment, he feels weird. He lingers in the hall for a moment, as though vaguely expecting his home to look different somehow, and feeling oddly surprised that it doesn't. It should, shouldn't it? After this sense of some monumental shift in his world, everything should look different, feel different. But it doesn't.

When he sheds his jacket and shoes and steps inside, the darkened apartment looks the same as always, with the same bland wallpaper, the same lumpy couch, the same weird stain on the floor by the window, which Mickey swears was there when he moved in even though Mandy claims she remembers him drunkenly creating himself with a can of spilled beer. It all looks the same, and Mickey is confused. Because he feels different. Everything has changed.

He flicks the light on as he moves through the living room, heading for the bathroom. He was planning on staying up for a little while longer, maybe watch some late night crime shows on TV, but he's too tired. He stayed at Ian's place for hours, which isn't unusual, and he just wants to go to bed.

As he brushes his teeth and stares at his own reflection above the bathroom sink, he still can't pinpoint what it is that feels off. He looks the same. It makes sense, he supposes, even though he feels like there should all of a sudden be a giant neon sign over his head or something. He wonders if Ian noticed, if he saw anything different tonight. Did he notice the way Mickey couldn't stop glancing at him, straight-up staring at him whenever he looked away? Did he notice how Mickey avoided touching him, but all the same found himself constantly brushing against him more than necessary?

Does Ian know how amazing Mickey thinks he is, how amazing he _knows_ he is?

Mickey finishes brushing his teeth, splashing off his face with water before drying off and heading for the bedroom. Even undressing and getting ready to sleep feels off, like he's acting out someone else's habits, and it takes at least twenty minutes of tossing and turning in his bed before he finally falls asleep, that odd feeling still nagging at the back of his mind.

 

It's not until the next morning, when he gets a random Snapchat from Ian and his stomach does a little flip, that Mickey realizes what's wrong, and his heart sinks.

He's in love with his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that the chapters are a bit short (and maybe a bit slow?) so far, but I wanted some Mickey-introspection, and it'll be picking up soon, don't worry...


	6. Let's Be Alone Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> Okay, so this is kind of an anomaly, as in I won't be updating this quickly for the rest. It's just that I happened to finish this chapter and thought I'd post it, so don't get used to this kind of update-speed.
> 
> On another note, I may or may not have read and re-read all the comments at least thrice because they give me life and inspiration, and you have no idea how grateful I am that you take the time to leave them. Thank you.
> 
> Unbeta'd (I don't even know why I bother saying it, let's just assume that every chapter is unbeta'd, unless stated otherwise) chapter, with a title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuNTFGnVm4k). Enjoy!

Mickey can't remember being in love with anyone before, not even close, really. He can barely even remember having a crush.

As he allows the uncomfortable and highly inconvenient truth of his feelings for Ian to slowly sink in, however, he can't help but think back, the past looking slightly different through this new lens.

There was that girl in high school, Amy, whom he convinced himself that he sort of liked. She was always hanging out with her group of friends, and it was Mandy that brought Mickey into that fold―helping her brother make friends, as always, be it intentionally or not. Amy was pretty, with a nice laugh and warm eyes, and one of her constant companions, Brett, was pretty cool too. Mickey liked hanging out with the two of them, getting high under the bleachers and whatnot. The entire time, he remembers feeling weirdly content, yet excited, and thanks to others teasing him about crushing on a girl, he became convinced it was because he was into Amy.

It wasn't until the two of them hung out without Brett one time that he realized he actually didn't see her that way. They still hung out long enough for him to lose his virginity to her, but he never really understood why he so suddenly stopped liking her, why he so suddenly stopped getting all eager whenever they hung out.

Mickey could now, almost a decade later, punch himself in the face for being so fucking stupid, because he realizes that he remembers Brett's chiseled biceps much clearer than whatever Amy's boobs looked like. He remembers being just slightly more prone to sitting closer to Brett than Amy, remembers preferring to pass the joint to Brett, rather than Amy. Fucking Brett, with his dark hair and throaty laugh. As Mickey thinks about it, really thinks about it, it hits him that _fuck,_ Brett was his first real crush.

It just snowballs from there. Mickey remembers his last stint in juvie a bunch of years ago, when some curly-haired guy with the most bland personality ever offered to go down on him, and Mickey, being sexually frustrated and bored out of his mind... Well, he figured a mouth is a mouth, and he went for it. For weeks, even months, afterward, he successfully convinced himself that that particular blowjob had been no better than any of the ones he got from random girls he hooked up with.

 _Fuck,_ how could he have been such an idiot? Even his desperate, more recent reasoning of _maybe it's just Ian, maybe I'm not actually gay_ has completely gone out the window at this point. Because honestly, after all these years and all those mediocre-at-best sexual encounters and hookups, after all those girls and drunken makeouts at bars and parties, the inevitable truth is now just staring him in the face.

Mickey is fucking gay. Mickey is fucking gay, and has been for as long as he can remember, and it's a fucking problem.

From the moment Mickey receives Ian's Snapchat this morning, he can't stop thinking about it. The Snapchat wasn't even of anything in particular, just of some cat Ian spotted while going for a morning run―the fucking dork―but Mickey's reaction to it was strangely visceral. It made him so fucking _happy_. The sudden fluttering in his stomach was so unfamiliar and amazing that he didn't know what to do with it, and when it finally hit him why he was feeling it at all, he kind of wanted to throw up.

Because he can't be in love with Ian. Ian is his best friend, his bro, platonic life partner (according to Mandy), and even though Ian is into guys, Mickey is... Mickey. He's not someone you fall in love with, he's not someone you make an effort for or actually want to be with, not like that. And especially not Ian. Ian could get anyone, even regardless of gender, and he knows it. There is no way in hell that he would settle for someone like Mickey. No way.

Mickey hates to admit how much that bothers him. He hates to think about how Ian is no doubt talking to some other guy right now, setting up a date or a booty call or whatever the hell it is they do, oblivious to how Mickey's entire world has suddenly been rocked and shaken to the core.

He should be with some guy who knows how to deal with shit like this, anyway, who's experienced, in more ways than one. Because honestly, aside from that one amazing blowjob tinged with a few tons of denial all those years ago, Mickey's sexual experience with guys is non-existent. When it comes to this, he is, for all intents and purposes, a virgin.

Mickey Milkovich, a fucking virgin at twenty-four. He wants to laugh, just thinking about it. Or maybe hide under a rock, he isn't quite sure. Meanwhile, Ian is probably the most sexually active person he has ever known, aside from Mandy (whose sex life he would much rather not think about) and the idea of Ian even considering Mickey as any kind of sexual partner is just straight-up ludicrous. Shit, Mickey wouldn't even know what to do, if he got the chance. In theory, sure, but for real? He would no doubt make a complete ass of himself.

Why is he even thinking about that, anyway? It's not like he's ever going to get a chance to try it out, at least not with Ian. And honestly, he can't really think of anyone else he'd want to try it out with, so it's moot, really.

Mickey grunts at himself, placing his forehead against a cupboard above his kitchen counter with a loud _thunk_. How is he supposed to go to work today? How is he supposed to function at all? He feels like a drug addict, all of a sudden, desperate for his next fix. He hates it.

He does manage to get to work, and he even does manage to make it through the day with minimal slip-ups due to his uncharacteristic distraction. He ignores a text from Mandy, afraid she'll be able to see right through his poker face and unveil the dirty little secret he's now carrying around, and instead heads straight home after work.

He _really_ needs to pull himself together.

 _Ian, Ian, Ian._ It's all he can think about, that stupid fucking redhead taking over his thoughts and pushing everything else away, and Mickey lets out a tired groan of exasperation as he falls down onto his couch. All he can think about is Ian's face, his body, the way he laughs, Mickey suddenly so fucking curious about how those lips might feel against his mouth, his neck, every inch of his skin. He wants to know how Ian's body might feel, pressed up against him, wants to know how it would feel to have Ian's breath hot on his face, those big hands holding Mickey down and tracing all of him, rough and soft and slow, all while making those exquisite sounds Mickey caught the briefest glimpse of last night.

 _Fuck,_ that was hot. Ian in the middle of his own, blissful pleasure, something that Mickey has accidentally been privy to before, granted, but never like this. He never cared before, never paid attention. Now, he can't stop replaying that moment over and over in his mind, lingering on every technicolor frame, and the more he thinks about it, the more he notices how the rest of him seems to approve.

There's no accidental arousal, this time. Mickey actually kind of welcomes it, on some fucked up level, and he just lets it happen, lets himself feel that heat and anticipation, snaking through his veins and taking over. He vaguely thinks of how just a few years ago, he would have rather died than to indulge in something like this, how just the mere idea of being attracted to another guy would send him into a chaotic pit of anger and shame and resentment. Thinking back and sifting through all those years of repression and abuse at the hands of his father, and anyone else in his vicinity who might have an issue with someone being attracted to anything but the opposite gender, Mickey realizes that this isn't the first time he has thought about getting it on with a guy. It is far from the first time.

The only difference is that this time, he has three years' worth of positive experiences and support and a near-24/7 exposure to how _not_ wrong it is, as well as a total lack of life-threatening circumstances, to tentatively tell him that _yeah, this is fine._ After so long of slowly being re-conditioned, he realizes that how he feels is fine, albeit terrifying. It's who he's feeling it for that's the problem.

But still, he could fucking cry with relief.

Perhaps it's this new revelation that puts him at ease, or maybe just this new kind of sexual frustration, but things move pretty quickly, from there. Within minutes, Mickey is closing his eyes and visualizing Ian's expression, while his hand slides down along his body. The couch isn't the most comfortable place to lie, but he's too into this to even think about moving, the lumpy cushions not enough to distract him, and undoes the fly of his jeans to palm at his hard cock through his underwear. He hisses a sharp breath through his teeth, grinding up against the pressure and using his free hand to grip the edge of the couch.

 _Fuck,_ that's good.

As his imagination gets going, Mickey slips his hand underneath his boxers and slowly thumbs at the head of his cock, before sliding down to the base and gripping it firmly. He lets out a low moan, settling down more comfortably on the couch and getting lost in the way it feels, the way thoughts and images of Ian take over his mind, much more deliberately and intensely than last time. He sees no point in holding back.

He gets into it very quickly, practically squirming against the couch as he slowly thrusts into his hand. He tries to shift his weight at first, trying to keep the lumpy cushions from digging into his back, but after a little while, he realizes that it's not actually that bad. In fact, it allows him to apply some nice pressure a bit lower, and he finds himself grinding down against the couch rather than upwards. It feels a bit weird, but good weird, and before long, he's got a nice rhythm going, stroking himself while simultaneously gyrating against the surface beneath him at a slow, deliberate pace.

He likes imagining that it's Ian beneath him, behind him, strong arms wrapped tightly around his torso as he breathes heavily by Mickey's ear. Mickey imagines half-sitting in his lap, bodies pressed tightly together, Ian sliding one hand down between Mickey's legs to slowly jerk him off, all the while grinding against his ass with his own, hard cock.

Mickey's breath hitches. _Fuck_ , just the thought of it makes him so hot. He presses his head back against the couch pillows, grinding with his ass against the cushions, stroking and thrusting, focusing on the sweet combination of the two sensations. He likes it. The realization of it terrifies him, but fuck, he likes it, and he even lets a moan fall from his lips as he keeps grinding, keeps applying that sweet pressure from behind. Honestly, it makes jerking off feel ten times better, more intense, and Mickey kind of gets lost in it, letting his imagination run wild with fantasies of Ian rubbing up against him, his breath hitching as he takes in Mickey's reactions.

Mickey likes that too, he realizes. He likes the idea of Ian getting off on him, of Ian getting off on watching Mickey squirm and hearing him moan, on making him feel good. Mickey imagines Ian holding him closer, pressing their bodies together and grinding against Mickey's ass like a fucking horny teenager, moaning and grunting in Mickey's ear until―

It takes Mickey by surprise, the sudden orgasm so intense that he honest to god loses his breath, and his free hand grips the couch's edge so tightly that the knuckles turn white, while he comes so hard he can't even think straight.

What feels like minutes later, Mickey's head is still spinning, and he feels too amazing to even be bothered by the sticky mess he just created. He feels high, in a whole new way, and he thinks that that might have been the best orgasm he has ever had. He suddenly understands why people won't stop talking about it, why everyone around him has always seemed so obsessed with sex, because if _good_ sex feels anything like this... Then, well, he might want a piece of that action.

He wonders if that's why Ian can't seem to stop having it, if all the sex he has is great sex. Then he mutters to himself because even now, just moments after coming, he can't stop thinking about Ian. Mickey exhales heavily and closes his eyes, his heart rate finally slowing down.

Damn, he's got it bad for this guy.

* * *

_Don't forget the beer._ That's all the message says when Mickey fishes his phone out of his pocket. It's from Ian, and even though they talked just minutes ago, he still feels the need to remind Mickey of the incredibly simple task he asked of him during that conversation.

Mickey groans, putting the phone back in its place as he keeps walking down the street. He's on his way over to Ian's place, and hadn't forgotten about the fucking beer. He stops by a supermarket on his way, heads inside and grabs a six pack, but he has just barely done so before his phone alerts him to another message.

 _Mick, you promised,_ Ian says, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

 _You'll get your fucking beer,_ he replies, and doesn't really have time to put the phone away again, before Ian sends back a smiling poop emoji, and Mickey glares at the screen, tempted to throw the phone into a wall. He doesn't, of course. Instead, he heads over to the checkout line, only to find that it's surprisingly long.

Mickey sighs in frustration as the line barely moves. He doesn't have time for this. He's anxious to get out of here and over to Ian's, even as he realizes how stupid it is. He also realizes that these days, his desire to hang out with his friend―to whom he has jerked off twice, now, as recently as yesterday―borders on creepy, but he tries not to care. He doesn't have the discipline to care. He wants what he wants, and for the first time, he's actually pretty okay with that.

"Oh my god," a voice says behind him, one which belongs to a girl in her early twenties, judging from Mickey's quick assessment as he glances over his shoulder. "Did you see what Anne was wearing? I mean, could you die?"

The girl's friend, who appears to be the same age, lets out a dramatic groan.

"Ugh, yes," she says, sipping loudly on the straw of her smoothie. "It's like, we get it, you're open for business. Like Tim would ever go for that."

"It's not for Tim, though," Girl 1 says. "It's for Eddie."

Girl 2 frowns as she makes a confused, muffled sound around her straw.

"I thought she was hot for Tim," she says, and Girl 1 nods.

"No, she is," she confirms. "I mean, she's totally hot for him. But Eddie's hot for her, and Tim doesn't even pay attention to her."

"But Eddie's a douche," Girl 2 says, while Mickey starts questioning why he's even paying attention to this conversation. There are still two people ahead of him in the line, though, so he supposes that it's all the entertainment he has.

"Oh, he's totally a douche," Girl 1 agrees. "But Anne wants his attention to make Tim jealous."

"Why?"

"Em, come on," Girl 1 says exasperatedly. "It's all about desirability. Marketing 101, you see someone wanting something, and you'll start wanting that something, too. We went over it in Monday's lecture."

Girl 2―whose name is apparently Em―groans.

"Yeah, pretty sure I slept through that," she says. "Not sure it works with people, though."

"Don't say that," Girl 1 says, just as Mickey finally reaches the cash register. "Sandy told me Anne got a text from Tim last night, with not one, but two flirty emojis."

Em makes an impressed noise.

"Well, fuck," she says. "I gotta look into that."

Mickey doesn't get to hear the other girl's reply, because by then, he has paid for his beer and is heading out of the store, leaving the overheard and menial conversation behind.

Ian opens the door as soon as Mickey reaches his floor in the apartment building, and Mickey nearly jumps in surprise.

"The fuck?" he says, and Ian smiles.

"Do you have what I asked for?" he asks conspiringly, in a low voice that's probably supposed to sound mysterious, but which only leaves Mickey feeling vaguely and uncomfortably turned on.

"How the fuck did you know I was here?" Mickey says, rather than answering the question, and Ian narrows his eyes.

"Telepathy," he says, holding out his hand as Mickey reaches the front door. "Now gimme."

He makes a grabby gesture, and Mickey feels a small, fond smile tug at his mouth as he hands over the six pack, which Ian immediately snatches up and brings with him inside. Mickey makes an affronted noise.

"Wow, okay," he says, stepping into the hall as Ian heads into the kitchen. "You just want me for my money and gifts, I see how it is."

Ian pokes his head out from the kitchen as Mickey takes his shoes and jacket off, and when Mickey looks up, Ian is right in front of him.

"Among other things," Ian says, grabbing the back of Mickey's head playfully and ruffling his hair, and Mickey ducks out from under his grip, smoothing back the messed-up do.

"Dick," he says, and Ian laughs.

"Oh, stop it, you sweet talker," he says, heading back into the kitchen. "I'll get it next time."

Mickey keeps smoothing over his hair, taking a deep breath as he desperately hopes his neck and cheeks don't look as flushed as they suddenly feel.

"Yeah?" he says once he has pulled himself together.

"Yeah," Ian confirms. "Don't mess with the system, it's a good system."

Mickey chuckles.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, the tattooed letters on the hands he shoves into his pockets saying otherwise. He can't explain it, but he suddenly feels strangely giddy, like just being around Ian is all he could ever want. He has always gravitated toward him, even literally at times, but it's different now.

Shit, everything is different now.

The two of them head into the living room, where they set up with beers and a bowl of borderline-stale cheetos Ian found in a kitchen cupboard, and get started on a nice, calm round of _Halo._ For the first fifteen minutes or so, Mickey can't quite settle down, stealing glances at Ian and smiling for no reason, before he's properly distracted by the game and gets into it. He still glances at Ian and grins like a fucking idiot, but the tingly excitement he felt is mostly gone, and he's glad. He's not really in the mood to make a complete ass of himself, right now.

Ian still seems to notice, though. At least judging from his expression, and after quite some time of playing and bantering, he finally brings it up.

"What's with you?" he says with a laugh, and Mickey raises his eyebrows innocently, hiding his surprise at the question as best he can.

"What?" he says. Ian shrugs, the game idling in the background.

"I don't know," he says, and he really sounds like he means it. "There's something different about you."

Mickey makes a face, uncertain of how to feel about that, or how to respond.

"Good different or bad different?" he asks, and Ian tilts his head, deliberating.

"Good different," he settles on. "I think. But seriously, what is it?"

"Nothing," Mickey says, smiling a little, stomach fluttering slightly at Ian's _good different._ "Can't a guy have a good day?"

"Well, yeah," Ian says. "But you're... You're fucking _glowing._ "

Mickey's eyebrows go up.

"Glowing?" he says, doubtfully, skillfully not revealing a thing. "Yeah, okay. Get back in the game, asshole."

Ian narrows his eyes, keeps watching Mickey as he starts the game back up. He seems to consider it for a few seconds, before speaking.

"You seeing someone?" he asks, and the question honestly takes Mickey completely by surprise.

"The fuck?" he says, turning to his friend, and Ian shrugs.

"What?" he says defensively. "There's just something about you. You seem... I don't know, happier. Fucking chipper. So yeah, I think it's a valid question, since I can't really remember you actually dating anyone since we've been friends. So, are you seeing someone?"

Mickey mulls it over. He's not seeing someone, obviously, and the only person he'd want to be seeing is Ian, so he's momentarily stumped as to what to say. Then, out of nowhere and entirely against his will, he remembers what that girl in line at the store said, and for some insane reason, he goes for it.

"What if I am?" he says. For a moment, he regrets saying it, but the straight-up shocked look on Ian's face makes it totally worth it.

"Well, what does that mean?" Ian exclaims, clearly not expecting that answer. Mickey shrugs.

"What do you think it means?" he says, keeping it vague. Technically, he's not lying. He wouldn't want to lie to Ian about something like that, isn't even sure he'd be able to.

"You're telling me that you're actually dating someone?" Ian says, pausing the game and putting his controller down, completely abandoning that particular activity in favor of turning all of his attention on his friend. "Because if you are, you know I need to give her the all-clear."

Mickey nearly winces at the use of the word _her._

"What are you, my mom?" he says instead, but Ian clearly isn't about to drop this.

"For real?" he asks, doubt and confusion mingling together in his tone. "You, the eternal bachelor and cranky old man, are dating another human being?"

"Hey, fuck you, alright?" Mickey says, growing the tiniest bit defensive now. "I'm not that bad. It's not like I'm totally undatable, or whatever."

"No, that's not what I meant," Ian says, shaking his head and putting on that adorable expression he always gets when he's concerned that he's offended Mickey. "I get it. I mean, you're..." He gestures vaguely, eyeing Mickey up and down. "I see it."

Mickey frowns suspiciously, trying to discern whether or not Ian is being serious.

"See what?" he asks, said suspicion coloring his words, and Ian deliberates for about a second, before shrugging.

"She's lucky," he says, voice completely and utterly sincere. "That's all."

That's all he says about it, before turning back to the TV and suddenly very deliberately focusing all of his attention on the game. Mickey keeps his eyes on him for a moment longer, confused. Ian never drops stuff like that. On any other day, he would badger Mickey about it constantly, ask about any and all details about this non-existent, assumed girl he thinks Mickey is dating, and Mickey would have to flat-out tell him to stop. But not this time. This time, he just drops it, and Mickey knows he should be relieved; it's not like he would have any details to share, and he has never been comfortable lying to Ian, anyway.

Mickey finds himself feeling almost disappointed, and he resumes the video game, trying to distract himself from that strange sensation. He suddenly feels silly for playing that lame jealousy-card, and he tries to push it out of his mind. Clearly, Ian has no problem with him dating someone else, and he has no idea why he ever thought he would.

Clearly, Ian just doesn't care as much as Mickey thought he might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm serious about the slow burn tag. Really. Get comfortable, 'cause this might take a while.
> 
> (It will eventually definitely pay off, though.)


	7. Think Less But See It Grow, Like A Riot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> I have died from all the comments. I love you.
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uF3reVVUbio))

The first feeling Ian had when first being introduced to Mickey was _disappointment. Disappointment,_ because Mickey was hot, and funny, and smart, and so clearly, unequivocally _not_ gay. Over the course of that first night they hung out, with Mandy, Ian became more and more convinced that Mickey was simultaneously the most perfect and the least appropriate guy for him, all of which left him feeling all kinds of frustrated. Because Mickey's blatant heterosexuality didn't stop Ian from developing a massive crush on the guy, one which lingered for months, and which caused him an annoying amount of grief. And sure, Mickey was a little weird about Ian's sexuality for a while, but that passed, and Ian found himself liking Mickey even more. That like intensified further when Mickey turned out to be completely fine with, and not weird about, his bipolar disorder, something Ian still considers a rare, downright beautiful thing.

He spent a lot of his time back then just wondering what the hell he had done to deserve the suffering that came with befriending the unattainable, walking temptation that was Mickey Milkovich.

Eventually, though, the crush subsided. Once Ian managed to convince himself that whatever he wanted to happen with Mickey just wasn't happening, he did his best to just close the door on that, and move on. He didn't like it, but he managed, and one major thing that helped him in this endeavor was the knowledge that at least Mickey wasn't dating anyone else. And that coping method has worked just fine for the past two and half years or so.

Until now.

Because now, Mickey is dating someone. Sure, he wouldn't say who, barely even confirmed it, but Ian hasn't seen that look on his face and that particular change in his demeanor before, and he knows from experience that it usually only comes from one thing. Mickey likes someone. Mickey, who has spent most of his and Ian's friendship scoffing at and making fun of Ian's romantic nature and affectionate attachments, _likes_ someone, and Ian isn't quite sure how to feel about that.

So, naturally, he talks about it.

"Has Mickey seemed weird to you lately?" he asks Mandy, as they have lunch together, almost exactly halfway from both their places of employment. They're sitting outside an Indian restaurant, the sun is shining, and Mandy frowns a little at the odd question.

"Weirder than usual?" she asks. "Not really. Why?"

Ian shrugs, sliding around his naan bread on his plate to gather up any remaining goodness.

"No reason," he says. "It's just that he kind of mentioned something, the other night."

Mandy straightens a little in her seat.

"Yeah?" she says. "What?"

Ian keeps his eyes on the plate.

"I think he's dating someone," he says, the words feeling strange in his mouth, and Mandy, to his surprise, just scoffs.

"Mickey?" she says. "Dating? Yeah, no. What makes you think that?"

"Because he seemed weird," Ian explains, looking up. "Like, happy and smiley, and shit. Figured something must be up, so I asked."

He leaves out the part where he was too shocked to ask anything further, and just ended up ignoring the subject instead.

Mandy hums around her straw as she drinks from her glass of Coke.

"That does sound weird," she admits. "So what did he say?"

Ian shrugs again, lamely.

"I asked if he was seeing someone," he says, "and he kind of admitted to it."

"Kind of?"

"Well, he didn't outright say it," Ian says. "But he didn't deny it, either. And I can't really think of any other reason why he'd be acting like that."

Mandy makes a sound of agreement.

"Well, you're probably right," she says, and Ian is totally unprepared for the strange twinge he feels in his gut. "Even if it does sound unlikely. I mean, unless he's on something."

Ian shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

"He's not on something," he says, and Mandy shrugs.

"Then it's probably a crush," she says. "Good for him. Who knew."

Ian smiles a little wider, but it feels hollow. He has badgered Mickey for ages about getting out there and finding someone, about falling in love and at least getting a taste of what Ian feels far too often for far too many guys. He just never really expected Mickey to actually do it, to actually meet someone that would put that kind of look on his face. Someone who wasn't Ian.

"Anyway," Mandy says, interrupting his self-pitying, confused train of thought. "Ask me about my job."

Ian smiles, sincerely this time.

"How's your job?" he asks, and Mandy grins.

"It's going pretty great," she says. "So far, I've only had my ass grabbed once, and the guy actually got in trouble for it. Can't complain."

"Your standards are breathtakingly high," Ian says dryly, and Mandy kicks him under the table.

"I'm serious," she says. "The pay's good, and sure the job's a little boring, but I like it. I like the people there, they're nice. Decent."

She smiles softly, and Ian feels that pit in his stomach be replaced by a glowing warmth.

"That's good," he says, nodding. "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks," Mandy says, eating some food while Ian finishes off his naan bread. "I think I might even be able to move soon. I've got a potential roommate."

"Oh yeah?" Ian says. "Who?"

"A girl from work," Mandy says. "She's cool, and she's looking for a place. She just broke up with her boyfriend, so she's been crashing on someone's couch for a few weeks and needs a new place, and I need a bigger, nicer apartment. Win-win, right?"

"Right."

Ian is genuinely happy for his friend, but despite his efforts to distract himself from matters concerning his other friend, his thoughts don't stay off that track for long.

"I mean," he finds himself saying after another minute or so, "where would he even meet her?"

Mandy frowns.

"Who?" she asks.

"Mickey."

Mandy rolls her eyes.

"I don't know," she says tiredly. "Who knows what he gets up to in his free time."

"Well, he doesn't really have any free time," Ian points out. "When he's not working, he's with me, and―"

"And when he's not with you?" Mandy says, eyebrows raised pointedly. "You've got your shit, he's got his. You don't tell him everything that you do when you're apart, right?"

She says it with some slight sarcasm, and Ian refrains from replying. Truth is, he does tell Mickey pretty much everything he does; it's one of the things he has always valued about Mickey, as a friend. He always listens. He doesn't say much, but he can listen to Ian just talk and talk, about anything and everything, especially concerning guys he hooks up with and dates, and all the while rarely complains. If he does, it's usually to share his less-than-positive thoughts about whatever guy Ian is talking about, and while Ian would never really admit it, he values Mickey's opinions very highly. If Mickey has a bad feeling about someone, Ian generally does his best to go against his own impressions―which he knows can be unreliable―and follow Mickey's. So far, it has never steered him wrong.

But the thought of Mickey going off and having a life completely separate from his own, however dumb that may sound, kind of irks him. Mickey doing stuff he doesn't tell Ian about, meeting girls and hooking up, even getting close enough to them to warrant that dopey smile he had the other night. Ian never thought it could bug him as much as it does.

"Seriously, though," he says. "I didn't even know he was dating at all. When did that happen?"

"I don't know, Ian," Mandy says, clearly already bored with the subject.

"I don't even know this girl's name," Ian continues, involuntarily adding a slightly anxious edge to his voice. "What if she's some kind of psycho?"

Mandy's eyebrows go up in an expression that reminds Ian too much of Mickey.

"And if she is?" she says flatly. "I'm pretty sure Mickey can handle himself."

"But what if―"

"Ian, seriously," Mandy says. "Have you met him? He'll be fine. Also, that's a weird-ass thing to worry about. Just because it turns out he actually has a life outside of you doesn't mean you gotta act like a needy girlfriend."

"I'm not―" Ian starts defensively, before noticing Mandy's teasing expression and small smile. He sighs, leaning back in his seat, glancing at the people passing by their table. He folds his arms over his chest. "I'm just curious," he says calmly, and Mandy snorts.

"Sure," she says. "Get me a name, and we'll facebook-stalk her. But for now, I wanna talk some more about me."

She pokes Ian's arm repeatedly, until he gives in with a smile and indulges her, spending the rest of their lunch just listening to her talk.

 

* * *

 

Mickey has never been here before. He has walked past several times, never feeling the need to go inside, until now. He has spent the last few days working up the courage to even consider it, and now that he feels like he might actually be ready, he still paces up and down the street a couple of times, burning through a cigarette in an attempt at calming down.

This is ridiculous. _Just man the fuck up._

When he finally makes his way up to the store, he flicks the cigarette butt away and takes a deep, steadying breath, and pushes the door open. A little bell jingles above it, and it startles him. So much for just slipping in unnoticed.

There's a counter right inside, and the blue-haired, twenty-something girl sitting behind it looks up from her magazine, a small, welcoming smile on her face.

"Hi," she says, but Mickey doesn't reply. Instead, he presses his lips together and looks away, heading into the store.

His first visit to a sex shop isn't quite what he expected it to be. Hell, he never really expected to even go to one, at least not in any kind of serious capacity. But after that intense masturbation session the other day, which left him a panting, sweaty mess, he kind of feels like he might actually need to. He has tried to recreate it, has tried to achieve that same, sweet pressure that, accompanied by his vivid fantasy, gave him the best orgasm of his life, but so far it hasn't gone very well. It's been good, but he just knows it could be tons better, and while he realizes that he could use fingers, or whatever, he's not quite comfortable with that.

He doesn't even really know what he's looking for, but he knows he wants something more than what he has and what he's getting.

Mickey browses along the shelves, cramped into the relatively small, at the moment empty store, the girl leans over the counter, unabashedly looking in his direction. He glances over at her, before quickly turning his attention back to the jungle of toys and outfits and whatever the fuck those are, hoping that she'll lose interest. It's bad enough that he doesn't even know what the fuck he's doing, he doesn't need an audience, too.

He keeps browsing, slowly making his way down along the aisle, every now and then gingerly touching the nearest object. Each time, he kind of flinches, like he should wash his hands afterwards, or something. _He should have done this online._

It's after a full five minutes of silent wandering and awkwardness that Mickey is interrupted.

"You need help finding something?" the girl from the counter asks, and Mickey nearly jumps at the sound of her voice. He looks up, and she's standing at the end of the aisle, leaning against the shelves, arms folded and head slightly tilted. Mickey shrugs lamely.

"Nah, I'm good," he mumbles, but the girl clearly isn't buying it. She fiddles with her lip piercing, using her tongue, before she straightens where she stands.

"I could recommend a few beginner toys," she says. Her voice doesn't have an ounce of suggestion or teasing, more like she's offering to help Mickey pick out a blender, or a waffle iron. Still, it makes him prickle.

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" Mickey asks, but the girl is unfazed.

"It's okay," she says reassuringly, making her way over to him. The heels of her boots are impressively high, but they still only make her just around Mickey's height. "You don't have to be embarrassed, or anything. It's my job to help."

She raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows slightly, and Mickey takes a steadying breath.

"I don't know," he mutters. "I'm, uh... I'm kinda new at this stuff."

The girl smiles.

"I figured," she says, but there's no judgment or mocking. It puts Mickey a little bit at ease. "What are you into? If you don't mind me asking."

Mickey thinks about it, then shrugs.

"Don't know," he admits, realizing how stupid it sounds.

"Okay," the girl says. She doesn't seem surprised, as though plenty of people come in here not even knowing what to look for. "You got a girlfriend?"

Mickey doesn't answer, just chews his cheek. It would be easier if he said he did, probably. The girl seems to deliberate.

"So," she says when Mickey doesn't reply, eyeing the nearest shelf in front of them, which Mickey is now staring at, just to avoid her gaze. "Something just for you, then?" He musters a nod, which the girl mirrors. "Got it."

She takes a step back, sweeping her eyes along the shelves, then makes a move to walk away. She pauses, looks back at Mickey.

"How open-minded would you say you are?" she asks carefully, and Mickey looks at her. "It's just, I know a few things my boyfriend likes. If you're not into anything in particular, maybe you wanna try something new?"

Mickey hesitates, but figures it's worth a shot. It's what he's here for anyway, right? He nods, and the shopkeeper makes her way toward the end of the aisle.

"Come on," she says, and Mickey follows. They turn the corner and head into the next aisle, which Mickey immediately notices is filled with phallic objects of all shapes, sizes, and colors, and he resists the overwhelming urge to run. The girl glances at him, as if to make sure he's still there, and Mickey shoves his hands in his pockets, unconsciously making himself smaller.

"For a rookie like you," the girl says, trailing her fingers along a shelf as she studies each object on it, "I'd recommend something simple."

After some consideration, she grabs a small cylinder with a rounded tip, only a few inches long and not exactly thick. She holds it up, and Mickey regards it warily. It's bright green, with what looks like a plain, plastic surface.

"It's a vibrator," the shopkeeper says. "Nothing fancy, just three settings. You just twist the bottom, and―" She twists the black rim at the bottom, and Mickey can hear the little thing vibrating in her hand. "Twist it more to up the intensity, twist it back to lower or turn it off. Easy-peasy."

She hands it to Mickey, who hesitates, but after a gentle, prompting look from the girl, he accepts the toy. It is vibrating, but not too strongly, and he tentatively twists the bottom. The strongest setting is louder and makes his whole palm tingle, and he suddenly finds himself curious as to how that would feel in other places.

"My boyfriend's into it," the girl says. "We use it a lot together, but he also gets off with it on his own sometimes. Ours are a bit bigger than that one, but it'll get the job done."

Mickey keeps his eyes on the little vibrator, twists the bottom again to lower the intensity. He swallows dryly.

"How, uh―" he starts, incredibly awkward about actually asking, despite how open this girl seems to be about her own sex life. "How does he―?"

He cocks his head, and the girl gets it.

"Mostly ass-play," she says promptly, with a completely straight face. Her comfort about this subject could rival Ian's. "There's a lot of fun stuff there, you know, a lot of nerves. Especially for guys, since the G-spot's in there. A little thing like that helps with some of it, at least if you don't go too far in, lest you become another ER horror story of things stuck in the wrong places. We got bigger ones for that." She adds it with some humor, and when Mickey meets her gaze, she's got a small, kind smile on her face. "But that one should be a good start."

Mickey frowns down at the vibrator, and she seems to sense his hesitation.

"It also comes in black." Mickey looks back up as she says it. It's really all he needs to hear, and before he has time to change his mind, he's walking out of the store five minutes later with a bottle of lube, and a brand spankin' new black vibrator.

 

* * *

 

It doesn't make sense. That's all Ian can think about while he folds a pile of polo shirts some customer just messed up for the millionth time today. How, when, _why_ would Mickey even spend any energy on finding someone? And where the hell did it happen? It's not like there's an abundance of women at the garage where he works, and Ian remembers him going on only one date since they became friends, which was only because Mandy set him up. Needless to say, the date didn't go very well, and Mickey spent ages complaining to Ian about what a loud chewer the girl was, how she wouldn't stop apologizing for everything, and every other annoying trait he could think of. Ian listened, entertained and weirdly relieved that the date had been a complete disaster.

He was relieved that Mickey hadn't hit it off with that girl. He's selfish, like that.

But even before that date, Mickey wouldn't shut up about it, bitching about how he didn't want to go, asking Ian about his outfit, and if he knew any good restaurants. Ian was fully aware of every detail concerning that date, both before and after. This time though, it all just came out of nowhere. Suddenly, without any warning, Mickey is into someone, and Ian had no idea.

Would Mickey even have told him, if he'd asked? He only sort-of-not-really admitted to it because Ian brought it up, and even then, he was evasive. It's not like him. Sure, Mickey has never been much of a talker, or a feelings-guy, but if he's got something to say, he says it.

 _What if it's serious?_ What if it's serious, and that's why Mickey has kept it to himself?

Ian smoothes over the pile of shirts and moves onto the next one, his mind reeling as he tries to focus. Not that much focus is needed; retail isn't exactly fun, but considering how messy his life used to be, he kind of appreciates the monotony. Rather, it frees up his mind to think about other things, like what the hell is going on with his best friend, and whether or not he's actually, properly _into_ someone.

It's stupid. Ian knows it, and he leaves the now-neat piles to sort out some dresses hanging on the wrong racks. He plays over his conversation with Mandy yesterday, tries to pay proper attention to her reaction and what she said. She didn't seem to think it was that big a deal―so Mickey's crushing on someone, great. She dropped the subject pretty quickly after all, and Ian couldn't exactly bring it up a third time without it being weird.

He's just concerned for his friend, that's all. Whatever romantically themed idea he had three years ago is dead and gone, and he just doesn't like being excluded from Mickey's life, no matter how small the subject.

He wonders if he can ask Mickey about this crap again without _him_ getting weird.

Ian finishes up the rack and starts making his way around the store, like he's on patrol. When he started here, he never really expecting to be working in a place like this for so long. About five years ago, he finally got himself out of the self-destructive lifestyle he had, trading drugs, half-naked dancing and hookups for medication, therapy, and a menial job. It's menial, but it pays okay, and although he remembers liking dancing at the Fairytale, he also remembers being in a near-constant haze of mania and various kinds of intoxication through most of it. It wasn't a particularly good time, and he's glad his family didn't give up on him, getting him the help and support he needed. If they hadn't, god knows where he'd be now.

When he first met Mandy, he'd been on his meds for nearly two years, and living in his own apartment for barely one. Fiona had been difficult to convince, but he eventually managed to make her see that after everything, he needed to make it on his own. He needed his own space, his own rules, his independence. He needed to prove to everyone that he could take care of himself, but most of all, he needed to prove it to himself, and he's glad he took that leap.

By the time he met Mickey, he was in a really good place. Despite his social personality and ease with talking to strangers―which retail customers apparently appreciate, just like all those guys at the Fairytale once did―he found it difficult to make friends. _Real_ friends, more than just acquaintances and random people to hook up and party with. Mandy was his first real friend like that since he got better, so when Mickey also came into the picture, he was over the moon.

God, he really liked Mickey. He remembers thinking that he and Mandy were so much more alike than he first expected, Mickey's expression which he first mistook for sullen and mean only being a kind of cover for the loud, funny person beneath, something which matched Mandy's personality nicely. Where Mandy had an easy time talking to people, Mickey seemed to have to warm up to them first, only to suddenly unleash a vibrant personality that sucked Ian in within seconds. Ian's life got tons better, after that. Mickey and Mandy are more than just his friends; it's like they've accepted him into their family, essentially expanding his own.

His initial crush on Mickey didn't make it easy, but it worked, and somewhere along the line, Ian just decided that he would rather have Mickey in his life as a friend than not at all. Even if that meant spikes of jealousy on a regular basis, and silent pining for a guy he could never have. He never even told Mandy about it, knew there would be no point, and who knows what Mickey would have done if he found out. Despite his eventual, obvious acceptance of Ian's sexuality, Ian was pretty sure―and still is―that Mickey would prefer not to be on the receiving end of it.

So Ian kept quiet, and it eventually went away. It went away, and didn't come back. Which is why he's so certain that his thoughts about Mickey now, and his new, apparent love interest, are based in nothing but concern and curiosity, and perhaps jealousy of only the strictly platonic kind.

Ian sighs, making his way around the store. Yeah, that's definitely what's happening here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the slow burn continues.
> 
> Also, yes, the Gallaghers are actually supportive in this one, and give a shit about Ian and his mental health. Because, you know, sense-making.


	8. Give Me Affection, I Need Your Perfection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> You guys are amazing. I love you.
> 
> Also, I have decided to attempt a weekly update schedule. From now on, I'll be updating every Wednesday, to the best of my ability, so wish me luck with that. Enjoy!
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBiPHTtMV2Q))

_Okay._

Mickey presses his lips together, folding his arms over his chest. He stares at the black little contraption, lying inconspicuously on his unmade bed.

_You can do this._

It looks harmless enough. It's not even big, there's nothing intimidating about it; it looks like a short, black, stubby wand, more than anything, and Mickey knows it isn't exactly difficult to operate. As long as he doesn't actually stick it in too far anywhere, he should be fine, like that girl at the shop said.

_This is no big deal._

Except it is, since he's about to initiate a very premeditated masturbation session for the first time ever. Honestly, he can't remember ever giving it this much thought, building it up in his head like this, instead of just jerking off whenever the urge hits him. No, he planned it, this time. He even blew off some guys from work who invited him out for beers, in favor of pleasuring himself at home (not that he told them that). Alone. On a Friday night.

Awesome.

He exhales, smoothing back his hair restlessly. He has already had a couple of beers himself, softening him up a bit and making him relaxed enough to actually do this. Fuck, he even googled this stuff, just to make sure he doesn't get anything wrong. As it turns out, it's all pretty straight-forward, and Mickey is pretty sure he has nothing to worry about.

But still. He can't help but think, in the back of his mind, how his father would beat him to a pulp if he ever found out about this, maybe actually even kill him.

Mickey shakes his head vigorously, as though shaking the intrusive thoughts away. _Fuck, no._ This is his life, his wants, and no one else has anything to do with that. If nothing else, Terry has been locked up for the past several years, and will stay that way for several more. Mickey has no one, and nothing, to be afraid of anymore. At least not in that sense.

The internal pep-talk helps, and Mickey takes a deep breath, gathering up the resolve he needs. He can do this.

The beers help, too; within a few minutes, Mickey has stripped down to nothing and made himself comfortable on the bed, eyes closed as he slowly starts stroking himself. He's already pretty hard, and he breathes deeply, trying to focus on how good that feels, rather than on what he's about to do. It works for a little while, but soon starts feeling a little awkward in the total silence of the room, and Mickey sighs sharply in annoyance. He opens his eyes, deliberating, before he fumbles for his phone that's lying on the bedside table.

He doesn't exactly have a masturbation-playlist, nor a sex-one (apparently that makes him weird, according to both Mandy and Ian―what the fuck do they know, anyway), but he does have some songs he likes. Mellow ones, but not soft or lovey or any shit like that. He settles for some slow metal, with a lot of bass and grinding guitars, the sound dark and deep and rough. He puts the phone down next to him, closes his eyes as he takes in the tunes coming from the tiny speakers, and he can almost immediately feel himself loosen up.

 _Okay, yeah,_ this might work.

It starts going pretty well, from there. Mickey unabashedly starts slipping into fantasies he has now had time to polish and perfect, all of them featuring Ian, and it's not long before he's fully hard and panting, thrusting slowly into his hand as he tries to stay in control. He doesn't want to just blow his load in a matter of seconds; he wants to draw this out, try some new stuff. That's the whole point, after all.

He opens his eyes to a squint, not wanting to open them too much or for too long, lest he break the spell. He picks up the vibrator, deliberates for a moment.

_You can do this._

He takes some lube and drizzles on the top of the device, figuring that even though he has no intention of actually shoving it up anywhere, it'll probably make this whole thing easier. He then twists the bottom of the vibrator, starting off with a gentler setting to maybe slowly work his way up, and he takes a deep breath. _God,_ this is ridiculous.

Mickey closes his eyes, brings his hand back to his dick and slowly starts stroking, working his way back to that heat he felt just seconds ago. It returns instantly, and he uses his other hand to steer the vibrating toy down between his legs as he lies on his back, inhaling deeply as he braces himself. He has no idea what to expect, still isn't quite sure what the hell he's doing, and―

He gasps, arching off the bed slightly in surprise as a jolt of some unfamiliar sensation tingles up his spine, and he stills completely for about a split second.

 _Okay,_ he can work with this.

Mickey gingerly turns up the setting on the vibrator, realizing that he can take more than he expected, and _holy shit, oh god that feels good._ He breathes deeply, pressing his head back into the pillows as he lets a deep, almost startled moan fall from his lips. The lube allows the vibrator to slide smoothly across his hole, and Mickey spreads his legs a little further to allow better access. That was a good move, because _fuck_ , it just amplifies the sensation, and he ups the setting further, intensifying the vibrations until he swears he can barely catch his breath.

He keeps Ian in his mind while it all happens, imagined moans and grunts in his ears, strong arms gripping him tightly, slick sweat of bare skin against his back. He moves the toy along with its vibrations, vaguely imagining Ian's cock in its place, brushing against his hole and sliding between his ass cheeks, hard and thick―much thicker and bigger than the device in his hand―and the moans that now escape him are almost embarrassingly loud. He keeps stroking himself, but soon stops entirely in favor of giving that amazing sensation below his undivided attention. He grips the covers with his free hand, grinding against the pressure and breathing fast and hard through gritted teeth.

The music is still playing, blending together so beautifully with the sounds imagined in his mind, and Mickey lets himself make even more sounds of his own, panting and groaning as the sensation builds and builds, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

 _"Mickey."_ He imagines Ian saying it in his ear, breathless and hot, a rough whisper filled with want and hunger and impatience. _"Mick."_

His heart is pounding, breath hitching, skin crackling, and Mickey presses the vibrator slightly harder against himself. He wants more, just _more_ , and he imagines Ian grinding against him, reflecting that very sentiment. He wants _him,_ wants him inside, and he tilts the vibrator just a little bit, just enough to push the tip inside, past the rim―

Mickey comes so hard he forgets how to breathe, teeth clenched and muffling a deep, strangled moan, his vision whiting out as the sensation floods him like a fucking tsunami. He can't even hear the music over the loud ringing in his ears, and it's only after a small eternity that he comes back down, chest heaving with heavy, exhausted breathing. Mickey opens his eyes, swallows dryly and stares at the ceiling, absently tossing the vibrator aside.

_Holy shit. Holy fucking shit._

He takes a deep breath, realizing that he's actually _sweaty_ , and he sighs. He thinks about what he just did, lets it sink for a minute. And then he bursts out laughing. Not much, just tiredly and lazily, as much as he can muster right now, but he's fucking _laughing_ , and for a moment or so, he wonders why. Then he concludes that he doesn't care, anyway.

He just feels good. Really, really good.

The music on his phone is still playing, and he lets it keep going for another minute or so, until it's suddenly interrupted by a different tune. Mickey frowns, still panting, but one glance at his phone tells him that someone is calling. He sighs tiredly and reaches for it, answering and bringing the phone up to his ear.

"Yeah?" he says. He sounds like he's high, or something, too mellow to really give a fuck about anything right now.

"Hey, Mick."

 _Shit._ Mickey fumbles with the phone at the sound of Ian's voice, sitting up as he tries not to drop the damn thing, a sudden burst of shock making a cold feeling plummet into his stomach.

"Uh," he starts, glancing around and grabbing the nearest cover, draping it over his naked self as though Ian might see his indecency.

"Mickey?" Ian says on the other end, and Mickey straightens.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, hi."

He tries to pull himself together, but his heart is still pounding and he's still coming down from that endorphin-high. He takes a deep breath, but he still sounds like he's panting.

"Bad time?" Ian asks. Mickey smoothes back his no doubt messed-up hair.

"Uh, no," he says. "No, it's fine."

He hears Ian murmur something unintelligible, but he's not really paying attention. He spots the lube lying next to him, and he hastily grabs it, shoving it into the drawer of his bedside table.

"Okay," Ian says, a little apprehensively. "Well, I'm calling because it turns out there's an _Alien-_ marathon on tonight, and I was thinking that maybe you'd wanna join me?"

Mickey hums a little, as though deliberating, while feeling his heart jump up into his throat as he sees the fucking vibrator still buzzing on the mattress. He curses under his breath and picks it up. He twists the bottom immediately, silencing the contraption, but Ian apparently noticed.

"What was that?" he asks, confusion coloring his tone, and Mickey nearly has a heart attack.

"What?" he practically sputters, talking a little too fast. "Nothing. I didn't hear anything. Get your ears checked."

 _Smooth_.

"Uh-huh," Ian says, clearly not buying Mickey's totally suave and casual and not at all suspicious behavior. "Okay. So, how about it?"

Mickey puts the vibrator in the same drawer as the lube and slams it shut.

"How about what?" he asks.

" _Alien-_ marathon," Ian says, sounding a little discouraged. "You in?"

"Uhm..." Mickey thinks about it. He wants to say yes―he really isn't one for passing up Ian-related opportunities, these days―but he hesitates. He looks around; the bed is a mess, there's a stain of lube on the sheets, he's butt-naked, and he can feel his own come drying on his stomach. Not to mention, the person he's talking to is half the cause of all of it, and he could just die from embarrassment and borderline shame. In short, he can't really face Ian right now.

"Actually," he says, still out of breath, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. "I'm not feeling so good. Rain check?"

Ian doesn't immediately reply.

"Okay," he eventually says. His confused disappointment is so obvious that it makes Mickey's heart hurt. "Sure, I guess. You okay?"

"Yeah," Mickey says, exhaling heavily. "Just a little off today."

"You sure?" Ian presses. "You sound weird."

_Fuck._

"Feel weird," Mickey says. It's not a total lie.

"Okay." Ian sounds almost concerned now. "You want me to come over? I could bring some soup from that place you like. A sci-fi marathon might be just what you need."

He adds it with some lightness to his voice, and _god_ , it's so tempting Mickey almost falters.

"Thanks, man," he says. "But no. I'm just gonna stay in bed, sleep it off. I'll be fine."

He hates lying to Ian, even if it isn't really a lie.

"Right," Ian says, the disappointment in his voice coming back with full force. "Okay. Well, get better then, yeah?"

"Yeah," Mickey says, nodding even though Ian can't see him. "Thanks."

"No problem." Ian pauses. "I'll check in tomorrow?"

Mickey nods.

"Yeah."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

Ian hangs up first, and for some reason, it makes Mickey ache. He sighs heavily, tossing his phone away to the foot of the bed as he falls back down against the pillows, hand over his eyes.

He's such a fucking idiot.

 

* * *

 

Mickey was having sex. That's the only explanation Ian can think of. Why else would he freak out like that when he picked up the phone, and be all out of breath and shit? Ian swears he heard the rustling of sheets, the familiar sounds of Mickey's bed squeaking, and even some other weird noise he couldn't identify. And then Mickey suddenly blows him off, on a Friday night, for the first time in as long as Ian can remember? What could possibly make Mickey act like that, and be all vague as he told Ian a totally transparent lie about _not feeling so good_?

Sex, that's what. That girl was probably over, the one he's apparently dating now, and Mickey was fucking her just before Ian called. Or maybe even during, maybe they were interrupted. Maybe Ian called and interrupted their little session, and screwed it all up.

He vindictively hopes that screw it up is exactly what he did.

 _Shit._ He was looking forward to seeing Mickey, to hang out just like they always do and mock 80s' sci-fi special effects while getting high and eating takeout. But no. Instead, Mickey is no doubt busy hooking up with someone. Someone with boobs, and female genitalia.

How the fuck is Ian supposed to compete with that? _Stay in bed and sleep it off._ Sure, that's exactly what's going on tonight. Maybe the staying in bed part, but that's it.

Ian never thought he would be so annoyed by some girl swooping in and taking his best friend away from him, even if only for a night. Because that's the issue here; Ian is annoyed that his friend is neglecting him, not that said friend is seeing someone. Someone _else._ Because Ian is past that. Whatever dumbass crush he used to have on Mickey, it was misguided, and now it's gone.

He gives the _Alien-_ marathon a shot, but it really isn't the same without Mickey. He checks his phone; it's only 8:15. Just fifteen minutes into the first movie, and he's already bored. Bored, and distracted.

He wonders what Mickey is doing right now, then decides he doesn't want to think about it. It suddenly annoys him, for some reason, and Ian sits on his couch, tapping his leg with his fingers as he slowly sinks deeper and deeper into the cushions.

 _Fuck this._ If Mickey is getting laid tonight, so is he. Ian has always been the one hooking up and going out, and he's not about to let Mickey beat him at that, out of nowhere.

Grindr is a gift from the gods, in a way, or at least that's how Ian sees it. When there's an itch that needs scratching, a remedy is never too far away, and that's exactly what Ian is looking for when he uses the godforsaken app tonight. Sure enough, within minutes he has set up an impromptu date with some model-looking guy with dark hair and stunning eyes (at least judging from the picture, and who knows how accurate that is), and he's heading out to meet him.

He feels better, already. This is what he's used to.

Ian meets up with the guy at a bar not too far away from his place, and thankfully, the guy seems about as impatient as Ian, because it doesn't take long before they're heading back to his place. As they enter the guy's apartment―Ian is pretty sure his name is Jordan, or Gordon, or something along those lines―the drinks they still had time to down before leaving, are making Ian feel all kinds of relaxed and chilled-out. He hasn't been properly drunk in a while, doesn't usually drink so much during hook-ups like this. He really only ever drinks like that with Mickey, but he's not here right now.

His absence is the reason Ian is doing this, in the first place.

Jordan's mouth is on his the moment they step through the front door, eager and a little too wet, and Ian does his best to get into it. Jordan is hot, after all, and that's usually all it takes. The way he bumps his teeth against Ian's once is a bit of a distraction, though, and Ian is pretty sure that this guy is as drunk as he is. It's not exactly a turn-on, but he can work with it.

It's when Jordan starts tugging at the fly of Ian's jeans that Ian snaps out of it a little, before telling himself that _no,_ he likes this. He always likes this, and he tilts his head back against the wall near the front door as Jordan slides down along his body, sloppily kissing and nipping at exposed skin in a way he probably thinks is hot. It's honestly just kind of annoying, and Ian swallows, closes his eyes as he tries to focus.

He wonders what Mickey is doing, right now. Is he having a good time? Is he actually sick, or is he about to get a blowjob, too?

Jordan says something, but Ian is too distracted to really listen. It sounds like a question, and he just pats Jordan's hair and gives a murmur of consent, not even bothering to look down. Jordan makes a happy noise, and the way he starts palming at Ian's crotch is almost clumsy in its eagerness. Ian grimaces, but he doesn't stop him, and he only notices something is wrong when Jordan's hand stops moving. Jordan says something, and Ian looks down.

"What?" he says. Jordan gives him an annoyed look.

"I said, you're not even hard," he says, that same annoyance coloring his tone, and Ian frowns. Come to think of it, no, he isn't hard. Not even a little bit. Not even close.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Yeah, I guess not." Jordan makes a face, eyebrows raised. Ian lets out a sigh. "You know what, I'm just gonna..."

He drags a hand down over his face, before starting to zip up his jeans. Jordan looks confused, and a little outraged.

"You serious, right now?" he says. "Really?"

"Hey, man," Ian says tiredly, "calm down. It's just not happening, alright?"

God, he's drunk. He didn't really care before, but now he doesn't like it. He wants to sober up, wants to get out of here.

Jordan scoffs, gets up off the floor.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "Well, fucking leave, then."

Ian has no issue with that. He grabs his jacket and exits through the front door, blinking dazedly as he steps out into the hallway. Jordan slams the door shut behind him, but not before Ian hears him say _fucking tease_. It doesn't really bother him like it once did.

Ian starts making his way down to the first floor of the apartment building, moving slowly to maneuver more easily through the haze, and it's only when he gets outside that he realizes he probably spent more time with Jordan than he thought. It's already pretty dark, and he puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket, deliberating.

He wonders what Mickey is doing, right now. That's all it takes for him to start walking in that direction, rather than back to his own place.

It takes a while, but Ian eventually reaches Mickey's apartment building, and he lets himself in, making his way to Mickey's floor. When he gets there, he stumbles along the hallway and finds the right apartment, immediately raising his fist to knock. He alternates between knocking and pounding, impatient for Mickey to let him in.

After keeping at it for what feels like forever, Ian vaguely starts to wonder if maybe he's got the wrong apartment. He glances down the hall, every door closed, and he frowns. Mickey said he'd be home, right?

 _Unless he and that girl went out, or something._ The thought creeps up on Ian, along with some kind of mild panic, and he straightens a little where he stands, while still swaying. Maybe Mickey isn't home. Or maybe that girl is still here, and they're in Mickey's bed, all exhausted from hours of doing god knows what, while Mickey told Ian he was fucking _sick_ or something, all so he could just―

It catches Ian a little by surprise when the door suddenly opens, making him take a step back. He blinks, and he's met with the sight of Mickey, standing on the other side of the threshold, wearing boxers and a ratty tanktop, unarmed but still wearing a vigilant, suspicious expression. The moment he sees it's just Ian, a split second of shock crosses his face, before he settles into an expression of exhausted confusion.

"Ian?" he says, voice a little cracked, as though he was actually sleeping just a minute ago. Ian frowns to himself; as far as he knows, it isn't that late. "The fuck are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

Ian shakes his head, trying to be reassuring, and adding some nonchalance to it by raising his eyebrows.

"Nope," he says, while Mickey rubs his eyes. "No, just in the neighborhood." He waves in the general direction of the hallway he's standing in. "I was bored, so... Thought I'd drop in."

Mickey frowns.

"At eleven p.m.?" he asks flatly, and Ian is genuinely surprised at how late it is. Not that it's actually late. Mickey is just an old man in a young man's body.

"Yeah," Ian says, nodding. "So?"

Mickey eyes him up and down, glances over his shoulder into his apartment, before turning back to Ian with a sigh.

"Alright," he says, gesturing at Ian to enter. "Come on in, then."

Ian smiles, and accepts the invitation.

The door shuts behind him as he makes his way inside, and he sloppily tugs off his jacket and shoes before heading into the living room. He can't help but look around, half-expecting to find at least a trace of a girl somewhere, but no luck. As far as he can tell, no one else is here. Meanwhile, Mickey follows behind him, and lingers in the doorway, by the sound of it.

"You feelin' okay?" Mickey asks, and Ian whips around. He blinks, trying to regain his balance as he moved a bit too quickly, intensifying the dizziness creeping up on him at the moment.

"Yeah," he says, shrugging in a way he would know came off as exaggeratedly nonchalant if he were sober. "I'm awesome. Great, in fact."

Mickey frowns, folding his arms over his chest.

"Are you drunk?" he asks, but it's more of a statement than a question, and Ian shrugs again.

"Maybe," he says. "A little bit."

Mickey sighs.

"Why?" he says, with the tone of a parent, more than anything. Ian cocks his head, makes a face, looks away from Mickey as he leans down and fiddles with a pile of various magazines and books lying scattered on the coffee table by the couch.

"No reason," he says, a bit too casually. "Had a date."

He waits for Mickey's reaction, and glances up just in time to catch it; Mickey straightens a little, shifts his weight where he stands, but to Ian's disappointment, it's nothing out of the ordinary. Mickey runs his tongue along the inside of his back teeth.

"Yeah?" he says, sounding utterly uninterested. "Why you here, then?"

Ian presses his lips together.

"Wasn't any fun," he says, slumping down onto the couch. "I left early."

He doesn't look at Mickey, only watches out of the corner of his eye as he disappears into the kitchen, before returning a few seconds later. He hands Ian a glass of water, and Ian looks up at him. One prompting eyebrow-raise is all he needs to accept the offer, and he takes the glass, while Mickey sits down on the couch beside him.

"So why wasn't he any fun?" Mickey asks, sounding tired, and Ian sips his water. He knows Mickey is only asking to humor him, like he always does. And like always, he appreciates it―he just kind of wishes Mickey's reason would be different, this time.

"Don't know," Ian says, taking another sip. "I just wasn't feeling it."

Mickey scoffs.

"Well, that's a first," he almost mutters, and Ian glances at him. He's looking down at his hands, fingers picking at the edge of his boxers. Ian allows his gaze to linger for a moment. He has always thought that Mickey has nice legs.

"What's that mean?" he asks, looking back up at Mickey's face before he has time to notice where Ian's gaze was a moment ago. Mickey turns to him, and shrugs.

"I don't know," he says. "Just trying to imagine what kind of deal breaker this guy had. I mean, you don't seem to really have a type."

 _You're my type_. Ian wants to say it, but he doesn't. The slight bitterness in Mickey's tone isn't lost on him; he knows how disapproving Mickey is of almost every guy he has ever dated. He looks away and finishes off his glass of water instead, before putting it down on the coffee table. His head is still spinning a bit, and he's starting to feel really tired.

"Yeah, well," Ian says, almost slurring now. "This guy wasn't my type."

Mickey scoffs again, this time with a small smile.

"What," he says. "Not pretty enough for you?"

Ian turns to him.

"No, he was pretty," Ian says truthfully, before suddenly feeling a dopey smile come over his face. "But not as pretty as you."

He reaches out and puts his hand against Mickey's cheek, in a way intended to be gentle and kidding, but which probably only comes off as clumsy. He sighs, hoping to write the whole thing off as a joke, but once his hand is resting there, he kind of doesn't want to move it. Mickey doesn't move either, just keeps a small, confused frown, and glances at Ian's hand as it slides down along his face to trace his jaw.

 _He has such a nice mouth._ Ian can't really stop looking at it. Aside from the blue eyes, those full lips are probably Mickey's best feature, according to Ian, and he tilts his head as he gazes at them. He keeps trailing his fingers along Mickey's jaw, feathering his fingers up across his cheek while his thumb smoothes over his chin. Mickey maybe flinches a little, but he doesn't really move. Instead, he just stays perfectly still, as Ian's thumb touches his bottom lip, sliding along it slowly, delicately, in a curious, almost tender gesture.

 _He has a really soft mouth._ Ian has always suspected it, of course, but he never actually tried to confirm; he always assumed Mickey would freak out, if he did. But Mickey isn't freaking out, at least not what Ian can tell. He's just sitting still, lips parting slightly as Ian gently applies pressure to the bottom one, Ian marveling at the smooth warmth he can feel through his own fingertips. He looks up. Mickey is staring at him, eyes hooded and focused on Ian's. He doesn't look angry, or annoyed. Tense, even scared, maybe, but nothing telling Ian to back off, and Ian exhales slowly, deeply, keeping his gaze on his friend.

_He's so fucking pretty._

Somewhere in his alcohol-addled brain, Ian knows that he probably shouldn't be leaning in closer right now, especially not when he's unabashedly touching Mickey's face and tracing his lips like they're made of velvet, but he's not really paying attention to that. He just kind of wants Mickey closer, wants to know how soft that mouth would be against his own, and Mickey isn't pulling away, so maybe it's okay. Ian even catches the way the tip of Mickey's tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he feels pretty sure that _yes,_ this is a good idea. It doesn't matter that his head is getting heavy, and that he's a little bit dizzy, and that it's getting a little bit more difficult to keep his eyes open, he just...

Ian's thought process doesn't get much further than that. Instead, everything goes black, as he promptly passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, would you really want their first kiss to be a drunk one (I don't)?
> 
>  
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	9. Earth Spinning Backwards For A Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> Yay, I've kept my schedule (so far)! As always, I have died from all the love, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MH2_sXLnWmM))

Mickey is panicking. Granted, only a little, but still. He's panicking, because unless his own wishful thinking has suddenly started to cause hallucinations, he's pretty sure Ian actually tried to kiss him.

And it was amazing, the most thrilling thing, Mickey's heart pounding like crazy as Ian fucking _touched his mouth_ and leaned in. It was fantastic. Up until the point where Ian suddenly passed out, of course, going limp and ending up with half his body awkwardly and heavily leaning against Mickey's, while Mickey just sat there, dumbstruck.

He looked down at his friend after a few moments, while Ian started snoring obnoxiously, mouth half-open, and tried to make sense of what just happened. He wasn't very successful, and ended up just laying Ian down properly on the couch and covering him with a blanket. He figured he'd deal with it in the morning.

Now that it is morning, however, Mickey still doesn't feel any calmer, or any less confused. As he stands at the end of the couch, coffee mug in hand, he watches Ian sleep, red hair all messed up and chest slowly rising and falling at a regular pace. He sips his coffee, thinking.

What the hell happened last night, anyway? The sight of Ian outside his door at that hour made him freak out a bit; he thanked whatever deity that might be listening that he'd made sure to shower and clean up his bed. He's certain he wouldn't have been able to face Ian while still wearing a nice layer of post-orgasmic shame. Not that Ian would have noticed, probably. He was pretty out of it, wasted like Mickey can't remember having seen him in a while (not since that night he posted that fake engagement announcement, come to think of it), and while Mickey was on edge and hovering around, Ian just sauntered into his apartment. He almost looked like he was searching for something, or someone, but he didn't seem to find it, and after that, well... Mickey still can't quite believe what happened.

Ian has always been flirty. It's just who he is as a person, that much Mickey has learned. He has occasionally thrown that flirtiness in Mickey's direction, but never in any serious capacity, so Mickey doesn't know if last night was different. But there was something different about Ian's expression, his eyes, something about the way he touched Mickey's face like that. It was almost like he... _meant_ it. Like he _meant_ to kiss Mickey, like he actually wanted to.

But there's no way. There is no way Ian is suddenly starting to see Mickey that way, it's too convenient. They go three years without any of that, and when Mickey suddenly catches feelings, Ian does too? No way. Shit like that doesn't happen in real life. Not to Mickey, at least.

He wonders if maybe he should wake him up. It's the weekend, so neither Mickey nor Ian have anywhere they need to be, that Mickey knows of, but still. The tension surrounding him right now is almost a physical sensation, and he just watches his friend, watches him sleep.

Mickey quickly averts his eyes and sips his coffee. Watching someone sleep like some kind of creepy, lovesick stalker isn't something he's about to do.

He decides against waking Ian up. Instead, he shuffles around the apartment, dreading the inevitable awkwardness that will no doubt appear once they have to face each other, and about an hour later, he hears stirring on the couch. He straightens a little where he sits at the kitchen table, takes a deep breath, and very deliberately tries to focus his attention on the magazine in front of him. He didn't want to watch TV, lest he wake Ian up, and the subscription to this science publication was a gift from Mandy, so he figures he should actually read it once in a while.

He hears Ian groan, but forces himself not to go out into the living room. Maybe he can just play this cool, as though nothing happened last night. Which it didn't, but it still managed to shake his foundation a bit, and he's not really ready for Ian to know that, just yet.

"Mickey?" Ian calls after a minute or so, and Mickey stiffens. Ian sounds exhausted, voice cracked with sleep, and Mickey swallows. _This is no big deal._ He grabs his third cup of coffee for the morning, where it sits next to him, and heads into the living room, bracing himself. The preparation doesn't make much of a difference, though, because the sight on the couch still makes him do a double take. Ian is blinking sleepily at him, a vision in crumpled clothes and squinty eyes, and when he spots Mickey, he fucking _smiles._

"Hey," he says. "Got some of that for me?"

Mickey spends a second freaking out over that comment, before realizing that Ian is referring to the coffee, and he silently curses at himself.

"Yeah," he says. He considers getting a cup for Ian too, but then decides that he's probably had enough coffee this morning, anyway, and hands his friend the cup he's holding, instead. Ian accepts it, and the way he closes his eyes and moans contentedly as he sips the hot liquid is too beautiful for Mickey not to stare at.

"Thanks," Ian says, opening his eyes again. "I needed that." He looks around the apartment, glances at his own, clothed form, then looks back at Mickey with a frown. "How'd I get here?"

Mickey's stomach plummets. Ian doesn't remember. Of course he doesn't remember. He doesn't remember almost kissing his best friend last night, and Mickey feels a strange nausea inside, even though he knows he should be relieved, rather than disappointed.

"Uh," he says dumbly, scratching the back of his head. "You came by last night, pretty wasted. Said you had a bad date?"

He forces the words out as casually as he can, and Ian blinks, before comprehension dawns on his face.

"Right," he says, nodding. "Yeah, no, I remember. Guy was the worst."

He sips his coffee, looking down, and Mickey swallows dryly. He wants to leave, all of a sudden. He wants Ian to leave, wants to get away from him, and he can't really explain why. He should have known Ian wouldn't remember that part that came later last night, should have known that even if he did, it probably didn't mean anything. They've been insanely close friends for three years, after all; Mickey supposes it was just a matter of time before their boundaries started to blur and Ian's curiosity got the best of him. Almost. Even if he doesn't remember.

"What time is it?" Ian asks, snapping Mickey out of his thoughts.

"Ten," Mickey immediately replies. He has spent the last hour glancing at the clock, after all, waiting for Ian to wake up. Ian nods, glances up at Mickey before quickly looking away.

"Can I use your shower?" he says, and Mickey nods. Ian catches the silent permission, and he puts the cup down on the coffee table, before heading to the bathroom without a word.

Mickey sighs heavily as soon as he's gone. He drags a hand down over his face, and takes the abandoned, half-full coffee cup, heading into the kitchen. He dumps the coffee in the sink, leans against the counter with his hands on the edge, a strange lump in his throat.

This wasn't the weekend he had planned.

 

* * *

 

Ian is an idiot. He's such a fucking idiot. Not only did he practically crash into Mickey's apartment last night, shitfaced, he actually tried to―

_Oh god._

He turns the shower on, breathes deeply as he tries to calm down.

There is no way he imagined that, last night. He was going to kiss Mickey, and Mickey definitely remembers it, because Ian hasn't seen him this weird and tense in forever. He could barely even look at him, and the shower was all Ian could think of when it came to an immediate, albeit temporary, escape.

He strips down and steps underneath the hot spray of water, closes his eyes as it almost manages to soothe the throbbing pain in his head. He tried to kiss Mickey. No wonder Mickey is weird today. Of course he would be, with his gay best friend suddenly trying to plant one on him, out of nowhere. He must think Ian is a complete ass, and he's trying to be cool about it. That's what Ian would do.

Ian leans his forehead against the tiles of the wall, tempted to bang his head against them, but refraining, knowing it would only make his hangover unbearable. How is he going to get out of this? Mickey hasn't mentioned it so far, and maybe that's for the best. Maybe they can just pretend this never happened, and carry on like normal.

If only Ian had an ounce of self-restraint. He didn't mean to try to kiss Mickey, has resisted trying for ages, and he's not sure what's different now. But Mickey just looked _so_ beautiful, so hot, and Ian couldn't help himself. He needed to know, he needed to try. But he never got that far, and now he probably never will, even if Mickey doesn't start avoiding him like a leper.

Ian sighs heavily in frustration. God, he's an idiot.

He doesn't spend too long in the shower, just long enough to indulgently sniff Mickey's bodywash and pull himself together, and he grabs a towel to wrap around his hips when he's done. He catches his own reflection above the sink, and lamely tries to make his hair look semi-respectable. He doesn't know why he bothers; he has never bothered before, where Mickey is concerned.

Mickey is nowhere to be seen when Ian exits the bathroom, carrying his bundled-up clothes in his hand and unceremoniously dumping them on the couch. For a split second, he has the irrational thought that maybe Mickey left, just to get away from him, before he gets his thoughts back on track when he hears movement in the kitchen. He exhales, stupidly relieved.

"Hey, you got any breakfast in there?" Ian calls, trying to sound normal. He figures the best way to approach this is to act like there's nothing wrong, since that's what Mickey seems to be doing.

"In a minute," Mickey replies flatly, and Ian nods to himself. Maybe Mickey sounds a bit cranky, but then again, that tends to be his default setting. It went from annoying and confusing to adorable and endearing, once Ian got to know him.

"Sure," Ian says, looking around the living room. He remembers trying to find signs of that girl Mickey is dating, last night, but coming up empty-handed, and he wonders why. Wouldn't a female visitor leave at least some trace behind?

 _Unless that trace is in the bedroom._ Ian can actually feel his chest clench as the thought occurs to him, and he grits his teeth ever so slightly. That would make sense, even if he hates thinking about Mickey with someone else. He realizes that he really fucking _hates_ it.

"Pop-tarts okay?" Mickey says, snapping Ian's attention back to the present.

"Yeah," Ian says. He hears Mickey scoff.

"Better be," he says. "'Cause it's all we got―"

He steps out of the kitchen, and Ian is pretty sure he has never seen someone stop dead like that before, like they just walked straight into an invisible wall. Mickey practically staggers, straightening his spine in an almost comical way, and it catches Ian's attention. For a long second, they just stand there, on opposite sides of the room, eyes locked. Then Mickey clears his throat.

"Here," he says curtly, holding out the plate in his hand, and Ian slowly makes his way over to him. He grabs a Pop-tart.

"Thanks," he says.

"Got your meds?"

"Not with me," Ian says. "I'll take them before I leave."

Mickey nods. He sometimes keeps better track of that than Ian does, and Ian has a stash of pills in his bathroom, in case he ever finds himself here without them.

Mickey presses his lips together, gaze flicking away from Ian, glancing back, then away again. Ian frowns, not really enough for Mickey to notice.

"Listen, uh," Mickey says, rubbing at his bottom lip with his thumb. "you should probably go. I got stuff to do, and, you know."

"What kind of stuff?" Ian asks, calmly, bemused by Mickey's odd tone. Mickey shrugs, meeting Ian's eye.

"Stuff," he says vaguely. Ian notices how Mickey's eyes go to his mouth, as he takes a bite out of the pastry in his hand.

"Okay," Ian says, mouth full. "Give me a minute?"

Mickey nods, the reaction about half a second too slow.

"Yeah," he says, pressing his lips together again. Seriously, it's like he can't look Ian in the eye. And not in a bad way, like earlier, like he doesn't want to see him, but more like he's just trying not to, for whatever reason. .

Ian nods, slowly.

"Alright," he says, taking another bite of the Pop-tart. Mickey's drawn attention is a bit more obvious this time. Ian gestures with the pastry. "Thanks for breakfast."

Mickey nods, clearing his throat, meeting Ian's eye, finally. He's still holding the plate, now carrying only a single Pop-tart.

"M-hm," he says, and Ian smiles a little, before turning around and stuffing the last of the food into his mouth. It occurs to him that he's half-naked, and even though neither he nor Mickey has had any issue whatsoever with that before, it suddenly makes him feel a little self-conscious, and he grabs the edge of the towel to keep it in place around his hips.

"Sorry for crashing here, last night," he says, gathering up his clothes. It suddenly feels weirdly inappropriate to change in front of Mickey. "Thanks for putting me up."

Mickey grunts.

"Don't worry 'bout it," he mutters. Ian makes sure he has all his clothes, and he turns around.

"Well, thanks anyway―" he says, cutting himself off when he sees the way Mickey very quickly snaps his eyes up to his face. Like he was looking somewhere else, perhaps somewhere further down.

A light bulb goes on in Ian's mind.

"I'm just gonna change," he says. "Take my meds."

Mickey nods jerkily, biting the corner of his mouth in a gesture Ian has come to know as anxious. Ian says nothing about it, instead just heads to the bathroom, and he feels a small smile spread across his face as he closes the door behind him.

He knows that look. He's half-afraid to hope, but he can't really help it, even though he knows Mickey is already seeing someone else, either way. But it also occurs to him that Mickey didn't actually pull away last night, when Ian tried to make a move, a detail which suddenly feels more important now than it did ten minutes ago.

Ian huffs a tiny laugh of disbelief. A guy can dream, right?

 

* * *

 

It's another few days before Mickey talks to Ian. It's not that he's deliberately avoiding him, or anything, they just don't talk, and Mickey has to admit that he kind of doesn't have a problem with that. As long as Ian isn't mad at him, it's fine. He's just finding it harder and harder to act all normal around his friend―especially when said friend hangs around his apartment half-naked, forcing Mickey to stand there with an awkward boner, and act like everything is fine. God, that was embarrassing. Mickey swears Ian almost caught him looking, when Mickey―like a fucking moron―stared at his amazing back and bare arms and chiseled chest, while he was right there in front of him.

When Mickey does see Ian again, it's on Tuesday, and it's because of Mandy. She sends Mickey a text demanding they all hang out that night, because she wants them to meet her new roommate and friend, and they decide to be at Ian's place around seven. Mickey can do that. At least he and Ian won't be alone.

Mickey makes sure to turn up no earlier than seven, lest he risk facing Ian by himself, and he feels pretty good about it when he arrives at Ian's apartment. He considers ringing the doorbell or something, seeing as how Ian was jerking off last time he was here, before he pushes that embarrassing and arousing thought out of his mind and just lets himself in. The door is unlocked, and he steps into the hall, closing the door behind him.

There's music playing in the living room, and Mickey hears movement in the kitchen, before Ian pokes his head out the doorway. He smiles as he spots Mickey, his face lighting up. It makes Mickey's heart stutter.

"Hey," he says, while Mickey shrugs off his jacket. "You're on time. Mandy just texted, said they're gonna be late."

Mickey stiffens.

"How late?" he asks. Ian shrugs.

"Twenty minutes, maybe," he says. "She wasn't sure. Come on, help me out."

He cocks his head back toward the kitchen and disappears from sight, leaving Mickey standing in the hall. _Twenty minutes._ He swallows nervously. He can manage that.

He heads into the kitchen, only to find Ian standing by the sink, in the middle of doing dishes, and he slowly moves up beside him. Ian unceremoniously hands him a clean plate.

"You're on drying duty," he says, nodding at the open cupboard near the sink. There's a towel lying on the counter, and Mickey takes the plate and rinses it, before starting to dry it off. By the looks of it, Ian is almost done.

The two of them don't talk for a minute or so, and Mickey finds it kind of unbearable, until Ian thankfully breaks the silence.

"So," he says conversationally. "How's it going?"

Mickey frowns a little and tosses Ian a _really?_ kind of look, but his friend either misses it or ignores it.

"It's good," he says, a little hesitantly. The question sounds too much like small-talk for his taste, and it's uncharacteristic for Ian. Meanwhile, Ian nods, eyes on the dishes.

"Good," he says. He pauses, seemingly hesitates himself. "How's the girl?"

Mickey frowns properly this time, completely and utterly confused.

"What?" he asks, making Ian look up at him.

"The girl," Ian says, bewildered by Mickey's reaction. "The one you're dating."

Mickey blinks, slowly takes the plate Ian hands him. He rinses it under water, before proceeding to dry it off. He shakes his head, once Ian's question sinks in.

"I'm not," he starts, trying to think of why Ian would ask something like that. "I'm not dating anyone."

He even has a hard time saying the word _dating,_ much less actually doing it; the thought alone is ridiculous. He puts the plate in the cupboard while Ian grows still next to him.

"What do you mean?" Ian asks. Mickey shrugs.

"There's no girl," he says. "Not seeing anybody."

Ian doesn't immediately reply, and Mickey turns to him. He's just staring into space, a small, thoughtful frown on his face. Mickey snaps his fingers in front of him.

"Ey," he says, and Ian meets his eye. "What is it?"

Ian blinks, takes a breath.

"Wait, you're not seeing anyone?" he asks, and Mickey shakes his head, really confused now.

"No," he says. "Why the fuck would you think that?"

"Because you said―" Ian blurts, before snapping his mouth shut. He sighs. "You said you were dating someone."

"When?" Mickey says, throwing his hands up. "When did I say that?"

"What, so there _wasn't_ a girl, either?" Ian asks, ignoring the question.

"Ian, what the fuck are you talking about?" Mickey says. "When did I―"

He remembers. A night not too long ago comes to mind, and he remembers hinting at perhaps dating someone, just to get Ian's attention. To make him jealous, however misguided and stupid that may have been.

"When I asked about it a while back," Ian explains, weirdly flustered, all of a sudden, "you said you were seeing someone."

"I never said that," Mickey says, shaking his head. "I suggested, like you know, hypothetically."

Ian pulls back.

"Hypothetically?" he repeats flatly.

"Yes, hypothetically," Mickey says. "I never actually said I was dating anybody."

Ian blinks, apparently processing that information.

"So, what," he says. "Were you on something?"

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"I only asked back then because you looked like you were high or some shit, and I was pretty sure you weren't," Ian says. "But if you're not actually crushing on somebody, you _were_ on something, and I want some of whatever you took, that night."

Mickey doesn't really know what to say to that. What is he supposed to say? That he acted high because he was, because Ian's presence alone is suddenly enough to make him feel like he's cloud nine every minute of the day?

"Maybe I was just in a good mood," he says dismissively. "Happens, right?"

"I've never seen you in a mood _that_ good," Ian says, a smile tugging at his mouth now. "But seriously, you're not seeing anyone?"

Mickey sighs.

"Ian, for fuck's sake," he says tiredly. "No. If I was, you'd probably know."

_Unless it's you, in which case I'll take it to my grave._

"You'd better," Ian says, with a small huff of laughter, a noticeably lighter―almost relieved―atmosphere settling over the room. He starts doing the dishes again, handing Mickey another plate to rinse and dry. "Letting me think you were turning into a respectable lady. How dare you."

"More respectable than you'll ever be," Mickey retorts lightly, and Ian flicks foamy water in his face with his fingers.

"Fuck you," Ian says, smiling, while Mickey curses at the completely unwarranted assault.

"Do that again," he says, "and I'll kick your fucking ass."

The threat carries no weight, mostly due to the small smile on his face, and Ian's eyebrows go up challengingly.

"Oh yeah?" he says, but before Mickey can answer, he has dipped his fingers in the warm water again and splashed it on Mickey's face, prompting an outraged cry from his friend.

"Oh, you're fucking dead." It's all Mickey says before putting the plate he's holding down on the counter, and attacking Ian with a spray of water of his own, causing Ian to stumble backwards, laughing. He drops what he's doing, in favor of freeing up his hands to both shield himself from Mickey's attacks, as well as retaliate. The whole thing is pretty ridiculous, but Mickey can't stop smiling, and it's only when a loud buzzing sound is heard from the hall, that they stop. They both turn in the direction of the noise, both of them smiling and out of breath.

"That's probably them," Ian says, meeting Mickey's eye. Mickey nods, and huffs a laugh as he looks down at his splashed shirt.

"Yeah, probably," he says, looking back up at Ian. He pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth, releasing it slowly, and he just catches the way Ian's attention flicks to it for a moment. "I'll let 'em in."

He cocks his head toward the front door, and Ian nods, Mickey drying his hands off on the towel before heading into the hall. He buzzes in his sister and her friend, and makes his way back into the kitchen, where Ian is still standing by the sink. He hasn't moved a muscle in the past few seconds, and Mickey smiles.

"Come on," he says nodding at the dishes. "Let's finish up."

He grabs the plate he abandoned earlier and puts it in the cupboard, but when he holds his hand out for another, Ian doesn't comply. He looks up. Ian's eyes are on him, and he looks strangely determined.

"Dude, what―" Mickey says, but he doesn't get any further than that, before Ian leans in and kisses him.

Mickey swears that his heart stops. Or it jumps up into his throat while simultaneously exploding, he's not really sure. All he's sure of is that Ian's mouth is pressed against his, Ian's still-wet hands moving up to hold his face, sliding down his neck, and that nothing, _nothing,_ in the history of time, has ever felt this good. Ian is _kissing him_ , and Mickey can't breathe.

It's a rather chaste kiss, hard and warm in its urgency, but still borderline tentative, which is a word Mickey never thought he would ascribe to Ian Gallagher, and it makes his fucking head spin. After a moment that feels like longer, Ian's mouth starts moving, shaping itself to Mickey's lips, and after just the briefest second of dumbstruck hesitation, Mickey reciprocates, closing his eyes. He can feel Ian tense up as he does, can hear him breathe in sharply through his nose, and Mickey's hands move to Ian's waist as the kiss deepens, his head tilting and allowing Ian to tease at the seam of his lips with his tongue and gently pry them apart. It makes Mickey's knees weak―an expression which he has always figured is an exaggeration, and not something that actually happens in real life. He never thought he'd be proven wrong.

He's not sure how long the kiss lasts, only that it's the best however-many seconds of his life, and that when there's suddenly the sound of knocking at the door, he feels a wave of disappointment wash over him. He pulls away just as Ian does, opening his eyes and staring straight into Ian's green ones, his heart beating frantically in his chest. Ian is a little out of breath, eyes shining, and Mickey pries himself away from his friend when another impatient knock is heard, followed by the loud sound of the doorbell. He glances toward the hall, then back at Ian, who's still watching him, his hands now hanging limply at his sides. Mickey swallows.

"I'm, uh―" he mutters, gesturing at the door. He tries to think of something else to say, anything, but comes up empty, and resorts to simply leaving the kitchen instead. He goes into the hall and takes a deep, steadying breath before opening the front door, all while desperately hoping that he'll be able to make it through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's happening.
> 
>  
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	10. I'm Gonna Make You Swoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> Yay for schedule! And I'm still lying on the ground, overwhelmed by all the love that has been thrown my way this week. Thank you.
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8sbDEhVyVs))

"Karen." Mandy's friend holds out her hand, and Ian takes it. She's pretty, blonde hair falling loosely around her smiling face.

"Ian," Ian introduces himself, smiling back. "Nice to meet you."

Karen releases his hand and turns to Mickey, who hasn't said much, so far. He's just standing over by the docking station where Ian's iPod is plugged in, focusing a little too hard on scrolling through the music selection. It's his way of trying to be casual and aloof, Ian knows that, because Mickey actually likes the music that's currently playing and would feel no need to change it. It's kind of adorable.

"And Mr. Anti-social over there is my brother," Mandy says, gesturing at him and making him briefly glance in their direction. "Mickey."

Ian is surprised Karen hasn't already been introduced to him, seeing as how Mickey was the one who opened the door and let her and Mandy in. It looks like he slipped away as soon as he possibly could, avoiding any kind of immediate interaction.

Ian can't help but wonder if the kiss was that bad, if he should have done it at all, that maybe Mickey is silently freaking out, like he tends to do. Instead of saying anything, or acting out, he tends to internalize, just keeping quiet while Ian is the complete opposite, and the contrast has never felt more palpable than right now.

But no, it wasn't the wrong move. Ian is glad he did it, glad he finally grew a pair and kissed Mickey, like he has wanted to do for what feels like forever―the intense relief Ian felt when he learned that Mickey was in fact just as single as ever was spectacular. And most importantly, Mickey kissed him back. That's the mind-boggling, overwhelmingly exciting, vital part. Mickey actually kissed him back, and Ian almost spontaneously combusted when he did. It was, without exaggeration, the best kiss he has ever had, and now he feels like he can't even look at Mickey without being physically drawn to him. He just wants to touch him again, wants to feel his mouth and taste it, wants to feel his hands on him, wants it in a much more intense way than he has never really wanted it before.

He can't help but resent Mandy for choosing this particular night to come over and hang out.

Ian heads into the kitchen to get drinks for everyone, while Karen wanders around the living room and takes in the unimpressive decor. Even from this distance, Ian can hear Mandy asking Mickey why he's wet, earning only a snappy insult from her brother in reply, and he's instantly reminded of the way it felt to touch Mickey's face, his neck, his lips―

Okay, this is fucking ridiculous. There is no way Ian is going to make it through tonight if he can't make his brain―and other parts of him―calm the fuck down. That kiss (his mind is still racing at the fact that said kiss even happened) was less than five minutes ago, and he's already reminiscing about it like it's some distant, treasured memory. Although, treasured he supposes it is. In those five minutes, that kiss has already been secured and tucked away into the most protected corners of his mind, and he'll cling to it as much as he can.

He wonders if Mickey sees it that way too, or if the kiss was just some giant, awkward lapse in judgment on his part.

The way Mickey acts the rest of the night makes Ian even more confused. As the four of them watch a movie together, Mickey makes sure to end up as far away from Ian as possible, sitting in the ratty old armchair rather than the couch, and Ian does his best to pay attention to what Mandy and Karen are saying next to him. It doesn't take much for him to decide that he likes Karen, and that Mandy has clearly made a good choice when it comes to her new friend and future roommate. He likes her even more when it turns out that she, like the rest of them, is South Side. She has a certain bluntness about her, which contrasts with her sweet appearance, and she fits right in.

Ian still takes every chance he gets to glance over at Mickey, who is deliberately _not_ looking at him. He has never been very subtle though, so Ian catches about half the glances Mickey throws his way when he thinks Ian's not looking, and it makes Ian weirdly happy. They're not bad glances, not annoyed or uncomfortable. Granted, Mickey practically radiates discomfort whenever Ian briefly catches his eye, but the looks are different. They're enough for Ian to feel a bit more optimistic that there just might be something there, something Mickey has just been incredibly skilled at hiding from him, so far.

If Mandy notices the weird tension between her brother and her friend, she's not telling. She's smiling a lot more than Ian has seen in quite a while, and even though Mickey barely says a word all night, Ian can tell that he agrees. The only hint that Mandy might be picking up on the atmosphere is when Karen goes to the bathroom, and Mandy offers to get some popcorn from the kitchen―a task to which Mickey promptly offers his assistance. Ian humors him, stays put on the couch while they're gone, relatively sure that Mickey just doesn't want to be alone with him. Mandy's frown tells him that she finds her brother's sudden helpfulness a little suspicious as well, but she doesn't mention it.

The night eventually ends, on a positive note despite the awkwardness between the host and his friend, and Ian finds himself a little relieved. He's had a good time, but he just really wants Mandy and Karen to leave, so that he can finally get a word or two out of Mickey, in private.

Which is why he's so shocked when Mickey seems to have other plans.

"Wait, you're leaving?" Ian asks as Mickey gets his stuff and heads for the door. Mickey catches his eye, no doubt picking up on the slightly distressed tone in Ian's voice. He shrugs.

"Yeah," he says, looking away as he puts on his jacket. "Early morning, and shit."

Ian knows for a fact that's not the reason, but he says nothing. He just presses his lips together instead, while Mandy goes in for a hug.

"Bye," she says, throwing her arms around his neck. "Text me, okay?"

"Sure," Ian says, hugging her back, and Karen smiles a little as they part.

"I had a good time," she says, while Mandy steps out the door. "It was nice meeting you."

"You, too," Ian says, and Karen gives him a small wave as she leaves.

Mickey is still standing in the hall, and Ian can feel his entire body screaming at him to do something, to make him stay. It's not like he's not going to see Mickey again, he just feels like after tonight, he _needs_ to talk to him, needs to make sure they're on the same page. He doesn't like it when Mickey freaks out, and if he just somehow messed up their friendship, he'll never forgive himself.

"Hey, you coming?" Mandy says from the hallway outside, and Mickey nods.

"Yeah," he says. He turns to Ian, hunching his shoulders a little awkwardly, and Ian decides to cut him some slack. He's clearly beyond uncomfortable, and no matter how badly Ian wants him to stay right now, he's not about to make the situation worse for his friend. So he just nods, contemplates a hug until he sees Mickey shove his hands into his pockets. _Ouch._

"Bye," he says lamely, and Mickey nods in return, chewing his bottom lip.

"Yeah," he says, slowly backing away toward the open door. "See ya."

He turns around and leaves, and Ian resists the overwhelming urge to just touch his arm or something, instead just waving off his friends as they head down the hallway of his floor. He closes the door behind them, oddly annoyed at how that didn't exactly go according to plan.

 

It's not like it hasn't occurred to Ian before, the idea of getting off to thoughts of his best friend. Back when his crush on Mickey was at its peak, it did slip into his mind a few times while he was jerking off, images of Mickey's strong arms and pale skin, the curve of his mouth, the way his ass looked in that particular pair of black jeans. And okay, so maybe Ian couldn't quite help himself when it happened, and ended up coming like a fourteen-year-old who just discovered the magic of his own hand. He always felt a little bad about it afterward, like he'd used Mickey, somehow. It wasn't until he really managed to convince himself that he and Mickey were never realistically getting together that he completely stopped, pushing the idea away whenever it crept into his mind.

But that was then. Like everything else concerning that dumbass crush, it has now come back full-force, and now that Ian _finally_ knows what that gorgeous mouth feels like, it's worse than ever. With his entire body buzzing and restless, now twenty-two hours separated from Mickey, it doesn't take much to get him off as he rubs one out in the shower, coming hard to the thoughts of Mickey's heavy moans and sweaty skin. Whatever guilt he used to feel about it is virtually non-existent this time, and he just basks in the afterglow instead, simply _dying_ to touch Mickey like that for real.

Although, that might still never happen. A kiss is one thing, an easy, potentially accidental thing. Other stuff, well... It generally requires a little more effort. And judging by Mickey's reaction after they kissed last night, it's going to take a whole lot of effort, if he even wants it at all. Ian still can't be sure, and he needs to be. It's frustrating, seeing as how he is pretty much never unsure of whether a guy is into him or not.

He has texted Mickey twice since yesterday, just menial things, nothing big or too specific, but so far he has gotten no reply. It's driving him crazy, but it's also making him feel increasingly determined. And terrified. And very uncertain.

He has to talk to Mickey, has to see him, has to get this off his chest. And if Mickey won't comply, Ian supposes that he'll simply have to come to him.

* * *

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

It's the only pattern Mickey's brain has been able to process for the least twenty-four hours, or so. Ever since Ian kissed him last night, it's like his mind has been the very personification of that long, flat tone that signals a channel's lack of signal, and he has barely even been able to break it until now. Now that he has, his thoughts are racing, instead, as though waking up from a coma and trying to make up for lost time.

It's not so much that Ian kissed him, which―after some intense consideration and multiple, repeated loops of that memory―he can accept. Instead, it's the aftermath. It's his brain going from overjoyed bliss, to disbelief, to doubt, to panic, and then back again. Because he has no idea why Ian did that. He has no idea why Ian would get it into his head that kissing Mickey was a good idea.

Sure, Ian did seem like he was going to do something like that when he came over the other night, drunk off his ass, but that was different. He was drunk, shitfaced, and Mickey just wrote it off as some impulse Ian had in that moment and later didn't remember, anyway. In other words, it meant nothing.

But Ian was sober this time, straight-up sober, and the way he went about it... One could almost think he planned it, thought it out beforehand, and the way he looked so disappointed when Mickey just left afterward was both confusing and painful.

 _Maybe he actually meant it_.

No, there's no fucking way. No way.

Ian has texted since then, but Mickey has ignored it. Yes, he may have read the completely mundane texts a thousand times, and contemplated how to respond to them, but has still done nothing, simply because he has no idea what to say. Pretending that drunk almost-kiss didn't happen is one thing, but there is no way in hell he'll be able to pretend last night didn't go down. Neither of them can. Probably. Mickey is sure he'll find out eventually, since he can't exactly avoid Ian forever. That's not going to stop from trying, though.

It's late that night, while Mickey is trying to distract himself with some good ol' _X-Files,_ that his doorbell rings. He swears he must have developed some kind of sixth sense, all of a sudden, because as he hears the bell, he's 98% certain of who's standing outside the door. It's enough to make him hesitate, but when a knock is heard, which quickly turns into the sound of fists pounding against the door, he knows it's pointless. Ian must know that he's home, and he takes a deep breath, getting up from the couch.

_Don't be a pussy._

When Mickey finally opens the door, Ian looks a little surprised to see him, as though he was expecting to just stand there all night, jilted. He quickly pulls himself together, though.

"Hey," he says. He doesn't bother asking if he can come in; the question is implied, and Mickey's going to let him, anyway.

"Hey," Mickey replies, a little subdued in an effort to stay cool, and he steps aside to let Ian into his apartment. He moves away from the door, letting Ian close it behind him, and instead makes his way back toward the couch. When he glances over at Ian though, he can tell it's not a good idea. There's something very set about his friend's expression, and Mickey sighs in defeat, turning off the TV and plunging the room into silence. He knows better than to fight that look Ian is wearing right now.

"Okay," Ian says after a long while, as though searching for the words. He hasn't even taken off his jacket, his hands still in the pockets. "I think we should maybe talk about this."

Mickey shrugs, instinctively backing off in every way but physically.

"Talk about what?" he blurts, and he doesn't need Ian's eyebrow-raise and look of utter, bored disbelief to know what a dumbass thing that is to say.

"Really?" Ian says flatly, a hint of surprise in his tone at Mickey's response. "You're― Are you serious, right now?"

Mickey shrugs again, feeling like a complete, fumbling idiot, and Ian lets out a tiny sigh.

"Alright," he says slowly, apparently deciding to just skip to the point, rip off the band-aid, as it were. "Let's just say it out loud, okay? We kissed. That's a thing that happened―"

Mickey interrupts him by making a dismissive noise, like a kid who's trying to block out what someone is saying, while gesturing in a less-than-encouraging manner.

"God, don't―" he says, an appalled look on his face. He shakes his head. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Well, I wanna talk about it," Ian says, undeterred. "It's kind of a big deal."

"Doesn't have to be," Mickey lies, on instinct, but Ian clearly isn't having any of it.

"Really?" he says, taking a step closer, practically crowding Mickey against the wall of the short hallway outside his bedroom. "I kiss you, you kiss me back, then you get all weird and skittish, and you're telling me it's not a big deal?"

"Yes," Mickey says, a bit too quickly, even though it's a complete and total lie.

"Well, it is to me," Ian says, and the look on his face as he says it is painfully sincere, while Mickey can tell he probably didn't mean to say that out loud. "It's a fucking huge deal to me, and I wanna do it again."

The silence that follows is tense, palpable, and Mickey watches as Ian swallows, an unfamiliar, nervous look on his face. He looks like he kind of rehearsed this, like he has already decided beforehand what he wants to say. He takes a breath.

"Do you?" he asks, the two words heavy with meaning. Mickey doesn't immediately reply, mind reeling. He blinks, acutely aware of Ian standing so close to him.

"I―" he starts dumbly. "I don't―"

"It's a yes or no question, Mickey," Ian says, a slightly distressed edge to his voice. He doesn't sound angry or upset, though. More like he's worried, a little scared, maybe.

_Scared that I might say no._

The idea is tempting, and just the notion of Ian caring so much makes Mickey feel positively elated in the midst of his uncertainty. He swallows.

"Look, I―" he says, but Ian cuts him off.

"Fuck, I knew it," he says under his breath, looking down at the floor rather than at Mickey. He sounds deflated, like he just made a giant ass of himself, and he shakes his head. "I fucking knew it."

He takes a deep, steadying breath and looks back up, except he focuses on the wall above Mickey's shoulder this time, instead of his face. His expression takes Mickey completely by surprise; he looks hurt, so profoundly disappointed, and it really shouldn't make Mickey as hopeful as it does.

"I didn't say no," he blurts, and Ian's eyes flick back to his. There's a curious look on his face, and Mickey shifts his weight, rubs his bottom lip with his thumb in a restless gesture. "I just―"

He looks at the floor, can feel Ian's eyes still on him, while he struggles to find a single word to say. This isn't happening, this _can't_ be happening. He suddenly understands the whole idea of wanting something so badly and then completely freezing up once you get it, with no idea what to do.

He sees Ian move a little closer, just a step, and he looks up, slowly. Ian is very close now, almost close enough that Mickey swears he can feel body heat radiating off of him. He doesn't say anything. Instead, he just leans in closer, slowly enough to give Mickey a chance to push him off, while his eyes skim over Mickey's face, in a way they haven't before. It's new and inviting, and Mickey has no idea what to do with it.

Mickey finds himself suddenly breathing in short, shallow breaths, as Ian brings their faces closer together. In some weird way, he's afraid Ian might disappear if he even so much as moves right now, that this whole surreal situation might just vanish in a puff of smoke. _God_ , this can't be happening.

Ian licks his lips.

"You could just stop me, you know," he says, voice low. He sounds like he's half-worried Mickey actually might. "Just say the word."

The mere thought of stopping him causes a twinge of panic in Mickey's chest, and he finds himself shaking his head, ever so slightly. He slowly, almost cautiously, places his hands on Ian's hips, uncertain how to go about it, but the message clearly comes across. It's all the permission Ian needs to make his move.

The kiss is different, this time. Still searching, still tentative, but there's a kind of familiarity there now, as Mickey realizes that his mouth remembers Ian's, recognizes the shape and taste of it. It's only another split second before he's kissing Ian back, closing his eyes and moving their lips together, inhaling deeply as Ian moves in just a little bit closer. His hands are still on Ian's hips, and he lets them settle there more firmly, holding onto Ian's body as Ian moves his own hands up to cup Mickey's face. He keeps doing that, Mickey vaguely thinks, the gesture simultaneously tender and possessive, and Mickey decides that he likes it.

It's unclear when the kiss goes from soft to hungry, but it happens fast. Before Mickey knows it, any uncertainty he might feel is gone, and he's trailing his hands up underneath Ian's unzipped jacket and along his back, paying close attention to the hard planes beneath his shirt. Ian groans, equally surprised and pleased, and he kisses Mickey harder, pushing his tongue into his mouth and skipping over the slow exploration of last time. Mickey doesn't mind. He just tugs Ian closer, holding their bodies together as Ian moves his hands down along Mickey's sides, down to his ass, and when he uses his new grip to slowly grind up against him, Mickey lets out a startled, pathetic moan. He doesn't give Ian time to hesitate, instead puts a hand behind his neck and deepens the kiss, savoring the way Ian feels pressed up against him.

 _Fuck,_ it's the best feeling ever. He feels light-headed, lost in the sensations and sounds, like he's not really consciously doing anything. It's all instinct, all want, and the sound Ian emits when Mickey pulls his fingers up through his hair to dig into it is the sweetest thing. It's spectacular, and Mickey thinks that the feeling of being pressed between the wall and Ian's body is something he might be enjoying a little too much. Ian is, that's for sure. Mickey can tell, and it eggs him on.

Their breathing becomes heavier, every part of Mickey now on edge as his friend slowly grinds up against him, his heart pounding in his ears. He's getting hard, and he suddenly finds himself torn between pulling Ian closer and pushing him away. He can feel Ian having the same physical reaction, and he can't even express how badly he wants Ian to just go for it, to just grind against Mickey like a fucking teenager and come in his jeans―if they keep going like this, that might be just where this is headed. But at the same time, it's too soon, too fast. The thought intrudes out of nowhere, and the apprehension is enough to somehow trump the excitement.

Mickey pulls away from Ian's lips as smoothly as he can and ducks his head a bit, and thankfully, Ian gets the message. He takes his hands off Mickey's body and takes a few steps back, almost bumping into the opposite wall in his haste to get away.

Mickey leans back, trying to slow down his frantic heartbeat, while Ian puts his face in his hands and exhales heavily.

"Shit," he breathes, shaking his head. "Shit, I'm sorry."

Mickey frowns a little.

"It's fine," he says, out of breath. The words feel weird to say, given the context, but he means them. "Don't worry about it."

"No," Ian says, shaking his head as he finally looks up to meet Mickey's eye. His face is flushed, hair messy from Mickey's fingers digging into it, and he looks completely wrecked. It's beautiful. "No, I'm sorry. I got carried away. It's just―"

He swallows dryly, leaning his head back against the wall.

"What?" Mickey asks, too curious to stay quiet. Ian closes his eyes for a moment, as though pulling himself together.

"I've wanted to do that for a really long time," he finally says, looking back at Mickey, who just blinks. He processes this information for a second or so―an especially difficult task, considering what just went down―before regaining his ability to speak.

"What?" is still all that comes out, and Ian exhales.

"What, you haven't noticed?" he says, halfway between joking and serious. Mickey frowns, regaining his faculties.

"No, I haven't fucking noticed," he says, some bite in his voice now. "How the fuck was I supposed to notice, when you were busy fucking every other guy you could find?"

It's not really fair, he knows that, but he can't help himself. Thankfully, Ian isn't offended.

"True," he says, straightening a little where he stands against the wall. He seems to be keeping a deliberate distance between himself and Mickey. "But I have wanted to do this for... a while. And lately, it's been kinda difficult not to think about it." He sighs. "You've made it really difficult not to think about it."

Mickey gives him a look.

" _I've_ made it difficult?" he says. "Right. Says the guy who brags about his conquests one day, then prances around half-naked right up in my face, the next―"

"Mickey," Ian interrupts him, a small, fond smile tugging at his mouth. "I'm trying to say something, here."

Mickey snaps his mouth shut, sucking on his front teeth as he settles back against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. He feels weirdly exposed, excited, scared, giddy―all of the above. He gives Ian an eyebrow-raise and a cock of his head, urging him to continue, and Ian takes a steadying breath.

"I like you," he says. "Like, _really_ like you. I've always liked you."

"Yeah, well it would be fucking dumb to hang out with someone you don't like―"

"Mick." Mickey shuts up again. "I'm saying I'm into you. As in, more than in a friend-way, in case you hadn't figured that out."

Mickey's hearing is momentarily blocked out from a loud ringing in his ears, and the strange drop in his stomach is a little distracting. He quickly pulls himself together, and shrugs.

"What the fuck does that mean?" he says gruffly, a bit too nonchalantly, and Ian smiles a little wider. He seems to hesitate, before pushing away from the wall and taking a step closer to Mickey.

"It means," he says, the confidence Mickey is so used to seeing there mingling with that same kind of nervous apprehension, "that I'm into you. And I'd kinda like to ask you out."

Mickey takes a moment to register that, and then he blinks about ten times in rapid succession.

"What, like―" he sputters, trying to find the words and realizing that it's going to sound stupid, no matter how he puts it. "Like on a fucking date?"

Ian huffs a small laugh.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "Like on a fucking date."

Mickey's stunned expression morphs into a frown.

"You wanna ask me on a fucking date," he says, incredulous and doubtful, phrasing it as more of a statement than a question―because it's fucking ridiculous, and he'd like to hear Ian refute it. But Ian just nods.

"Yes," he says.

"An actual date?"

"That's what I said, yes."

"Why?"

Ian lets out a huff and covers the distance between them, taking Mickey's face in his hands. Mickey nearly flinches, but he's too thrilled and confused by this development to do so.

"Because I want to," Ian says, his tone back to the easy, friendly one Mickey is used to. Like he's just holding Mickey's face, really close to his own, like any bro would. Totally platonically, like they weren't just making out, thirty seconds ago. "I've been going crazy these past few weeks, and you've just been walking around like you have no idea―"

"I did have no idea―"

"―while I've been trying to get your attention." Ian pauses, and Mickey lets his words really sink in. His eyes are determined, his expression telling Mickey that that stubborn chin-thing he knows so well is only moments away. "And now that I'm like at least seventy-four percent sure that you kinda wouldn't mind, I'm straight-up asking. I wanna take you on a date."

Mickey doesn't reply, just stares at him, acutely aware of those warm hands on either side of his face, the touch different from before. Still soft, still possessive, but comforting. Ian keeps their gazes locked, slides his fingers down along Mickey's jaw, his neck, making Mickey's skin prickle.

"You wanna go on a date with me, Mickey?" he asks. He's wearing a confident front, one which most people would be unable to see through. But Mickey knows better. He can clearly see that tiny hint of apprehension in Ian's eyes, that fear that Mickey is going to turn him down, his genuine wish to actually be with Mickey like that. And that's what puts Mickey at ease.

Ian can't really lie to him, just like Mickey can't really lie to Ian. He can't fake this.

Mickey nods, a little jerkily.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Okay."

Ian lights up like a puppy, relief written all over his face.

"Really?" he says, and Mickey nods again.

"Yeah, sure," he says, a little bit more confidently, this time. He swears that if he could blush, he fucking would right now. "Whatever."

Ian grins, any trace of apprehension suddenly gone, and Mickey honest to god feels like that smile could melt a fucking glacier.

"Awesome," Ian says. His gaze flicks to Mickey's mouth, and he seems to hesitate for about a split second, before he leans in and kisses him. It's a brief kiss, not hot or hungry or anything like that, but it still makes Mickey weak at the knees, like last night in the kitchen. Ian is kissing him, like it's no big deal at all, just because he wants to. When he pulls away, Mickey almost lets a pathetic whine of disappointment escape him, but thankfully he reins it in before it slips.

Ian sighs, a content, relaxed sound, keeping his gaze locked with Mickey's for a long while.

"I should probably go," he eventually says, softly, and Mickey frowns at the abrupt statement.

"Why?" he asks, confused.

"Because I wanna kiss you again," Ian says, "and my self-discipline isn't really at its best, right now."

Mickey pieces together what he's trying to say, and he nods, shifting his weight a little where he stands.

"Right," he says, stupidly nervous all of a sudden, all over again. _Fuck_ , since when does Ian make him this nervous?

"I mean," Ian says. "If we're gonna do this right, you know? Old school."

Mickey raises an eyebrow at him.

"Old school?" he says, and Ian cocks his head with a small, almost shy smile.

"Yeah," he says. "You know, dates, courting, all that shit."

Mickey snorts.

"Courting?" he says, and Ian smacks his arm.

"Fuck off," he says. "You know what I mean."

"I do," Mickey says lightly. "I'm just pretty sure I've never been _courted_ before, in my life."

"Sometime has to be the first."

Mickey supposes that's true, although he never expected that to apply to him. And especially not coming from Ian, of all people.

Ian keeps his eyes on him for a little while longer, gaze flicking to his lips and then back again, until he seems to catch himself. He takes a deep breath, deliberately stepping away from Mickey.

"Right," he says determinedly. "Going. I'm going now."

He heads for the door, and Mickey pushes away from the wall, standing up straight. He doesn't really have time to process this turn of events before Ian stops in his tracks and turns around.

"I just thought of something," he says, a tiny frown on his face. Mickey prompts him with a look, and he cocks his head uncertainly. "Do we tell Mandy?"

 _Shit,_ Mickey hadn't even thought of that. He sighs heavily, smoothing his hair back with his hand as he presses his lips together. He shakes his head.

"Not yet," he says. "I mean, she'll go apeshit, and just... I'm not ready for that."

To be honest, it's mostly the telling-someone-else part he's not ready for, and Ian seems to get that. He nods, looks borderline relieved.

"Yeah," he says. "Probably a good idea."

"I mean, she'll find out eventually," Mickey says. "One way or another. Just― Not yet."

Ian keeps nodding, adorably.

"Sure," he says, and silence falls for a few moments. Then he cocks his head toward the front door. "Okay, well I should probably..."

He trails off and opens the door, stepping over the threshold and out into the hallway. Mickey leans against the doorframe, trying to look at least semi-cool while his brain is close to exploding.

"Okay," Ian says, turning to face him. "So, Friday?"

Mickey nods, not even stopping to consider it.

"Friday," he confirms. Just saying it makes his stomach burst with butterflies.

"And you know I'm gonna check in like ten times before then to make sure you don't bail," Ian says, and Mickey nods again.

"Right," he says.

"I mean it," Ian says, eyebrows raised. "I'm taking you on a date. Someplace nice."

"Please don't take me someplace nice," Mickey says flatly, and Ian quirks a smile.

"Fine," he says. "But Friday, then."

Mickey stifles a sigh.

"Yes, Ian," he says, masking his own nervousness. "Fucking Friday."

Ian is full-on grinning now, and Mickey kind of hates what it does to his heart.

"Good." Ian practically bounces where he stands, before he leans in and plants a quick kiss on Mickey's lips. "I'll see you then."

Mickey doesn't even have time to reply, doesn't even have time to kiss him back, before Ian has turned around and hurried down the hallway, as though determined not to give in to temptation. Mickey knows the feeling. He watches Ian until he's out of sight, before closing the front door and taking a deep, deep breath.

 _Did that just happen?_ Mickey stares at the closed door for what feels like several minutes, while he tries to wrap his head around what just went down.

Ian asked him on a date. They made out against the wall, moans and all, and Ian said he liked him, and they're going on a fucking _date_ , two agonizingly long days from now, and that just fucking _happened_.

Mickey thumps his forehead against the door, stunned, and stays like that for a long time, until he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulls it out, still leaning against the door, and sees that there's a text from Ian. For one split, panicked second, he's completely certain that Ian has changed his mind, and he anxiously opens the message.

 _Friday._ That's all it says, and Mickey feels a smile spread across his face, a warm, fucking _fluttery_ feeling settling in his chest, driving away any unpleasantness he may have kept there.

Friday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Karen is here now, too! I know that scene wasn't very fleshed-out, but she'll be back (and Mandy). I just felt like the focus wasn't exactly on them right now, but rather on the two idiots behaving like twelve-year-olds. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that it was worth the wait.
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	11. It's So Simple And You Know It Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> Keeping up the schedule so far, yay me! Your love nourishes me. Also this chapter is the longest one yet... Enjoy!
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=THjHNRBq7DQ))

Paradoxically, the following two days are both the fastest and slowest of Mickey's life. After Ian leaves his apartment, he can't seem to settle down, and gets virtually no sleep as a result. All through Thursday, Ian texts him three times just to check in, and Mickey responds with aloof confirmations, each time. At least he's trying to be aloof; he's pretty sure Ian can see right through it. Thursday night is a little easier than the one before, but Mickey still finds himself pacing around his apartment and alternating between cleaning and smoking, just to pass the time. He feels ridiculous.

When Friday arrives, Mickey starts freaking out a bit. While he's looking forward to the date (they're going on a fucking _date_ , it's still so surreal), he's also dreading it, and every time Ian texts him (four times, today), he jumps. His co-workers know better than to ask him what's up, as he'll only snap at them, most likely, but they clearly notice that something is going on. By the time Mickey gets out of there, he feels like every nerve in his body is buzzing.

It occurs to him that he has no idea where Ian is taking him tonight. He said he was going to take him _someplace nice,_ after all, but Mickey isn't sure how seriously he should interpret that. Ian's version of someplace nice is a restaurant or something, that much Mickey knows from all the dates Ian has told him about―but he also knows Mickey well enough to know that that's definitely not his speed. Right? Ian must know that. He must know that a restaurant would only make Mickey feel all kinds of uncomfortable and weird, and that it's virtually the last place he'd want to be.

Then again, this isn't like a normal hangout. This is a date. It's like their years of friendship are suddenly temporarily void, and Mickey has no idea what to expect now that Ian is in courting-mode.

When Friday night finally rolls around, he has to keep telling himself that this is no big deal. He has gone out with Ian a million times before, and this should be no different. It is, but it shouldn't be, and he's convincing himself of that for the eighty-seventh time when he and Ian are making their way out the door of his apartment building. Because of course, Ian came to pick him up, the dork.

"So," Mickey says, hating himself for trying to make actual small-talk with his best friend, as they start walking. "Where are we going?"

Ian smiles a little beside him. If Mickey didn't know better, he'd say he looks a little nervous, too. It's almost enough to distract Mickey from the way the setting sun lights up Ian's freckled face and red hair, and _god_ , when he did he get so fucking _gay_?

"I'd say it's a surprise," Ian says, and Mickey's shoulders immediately tense up, "but I know you hate that."

Mickey's shoulders relax, making Ian's expression turn amused for about a second.

"I thought we'd go eat something," Ian continues, and elaborates when he once again sees Mickey's minute shift in expression and body-language. "Someplace dark, with cheap beer, and without proper tables and chairs."

Mickey pulls back a little.

"I thought you said 'someplace nice'," he points out, and Ian cocks his head.

"It's your kind of nice," he says, and Mickey swears he falls in love all over again. Or more in love, he's not quite sure. Whatever it is, it makes him want to kiss the guy, but he refrains.

"Yeah?" he says instead.

"Yeah," Ian says, smiling a little. "Good?"

Mickey feels a small smile of his own tug at his mouth. He nods.

"Good."

The place Ian takes them to is adequately dark and seedy, but not enough to make Mickey feel like he'll catch something just by being there. He's pretty sure it's mostly an aesthetic choice by the owners, anyway. The bar is filled with people in their twenties and thirties, rather than the middle-aged drunks Mickey half-expects, and while it at first makes him a little confused as to why Ian picked this place, he develops a theory after a minute or so. The clientele is decent, and there are a lot of people here; both things provide better circumstances for an undisturbed date between two dudes. At least, Mickey assumes as much, and either way, it puts him at ease.

They get a couple of beers, as well as a basket of hot wings and some fries, and find a booth that's miraculously vacant. They slide into their seats, opposite each other, and it's only then that it really hits Mickey: they're doing this. He's on a date with Ian Gallagher, and if anyone had told him that two months ago, he would have vehemently denied it for so many reasons. It just wouldn't have made sense, like it still kind of doesn't.

And yet, here he is, sitting across from someone he never thought he could want as much as he does, with a mutual understanding between the two of them of why they're here in the first place―and it's a very non-platonic one.

Mickey swallows, de-aging about five years to a time when he didn't even have half the true confidence he has now, and he averts his eyes in favor of taking a deep swig of beer from his glass. The drink really is cheap, that much is obvious. Looks like Ian came through.

"So, do I pass?" Ian asks, grabbing a few fries and making Mickey look up. He can just hear him over the murmur of people around them, without Ian having to raise his voice.

"Huh?" Mickey says dumbly, anyway.

"Location," Ian clarifies, gesturing around him with the food in his hand. He proceeds to dip a couple of fries, before taking a bite out of them, and Mickey stares for a second. He nods.

"Yeah," he says, trying to settle more comfortably where he sits. The upholstery is about as tacky as one would expect, but it makes him feel right at home. "You pass."

Ian smiles, mouth full and thankfully closed, and he finishes chewing before swallowing down his bite.

"Good," he says, dipping the last of his fries. "Now, how about you tell me a bit about yourself?"

Mickey's eyebrows go up.

"You're kidding, right?" he says, but Ian just shrugs.

"It's a date," he says. "It's how it's done."

"Really?" Mickey says flatly, while Ian finishes off yet another fry. "That's how it's gonna be?"

"Well, I don't know," Ian says. For a second, a trace of awkwardness shines through, and it makes Mickey feel a little better about his own. "Dates are for getting to know someone better, right?"

"Yeah?" Mickey says, folding his arms as he leans back in his seat. "Name one thing about me you don't already know."

"Well, if I don't know it, I can't really name it, now can I?" Ian says cheekily.

"Hey, you're the one who wants the date-experience, smartass."

Ian narrows his eyes.

"Fine," he says, leaning back. His brow furrows in concentration, and he gazes at Mickey intently, as though trying to read his mind. Mickey doesn't move or look away, but Ian's scrutiny makes him a little restless.

"Well?" he prompts.

"Shut up, I'm thinking," Ian says, folding his arms and mirroring his friend. It takes another long stretch of time―during which Mickey impressively manages not to move―that Ian speaks. He tilts his head. "You ever been to the zoo?"

Mickey blinks, eyebrows shooting up.

"What?" he says.

"The zoo," Ian says. "You ever been?"

"What the fuck kind of question is that?" Mickey says, huffing a laugh.

"A valid one," Ian says. "Yes or no."

Mickey deliberates.

"No," he says, and Ian looks surprised.

"Never?" he asks.

"Do the Milkoviches strike you as a field-trip kind of family?" Mickey gives him a pointed look. "No, I've never been."

Ian nods slowly, thinking.

"You wanna go?" he says, and Mickey is honestly surprised at the fact that Ian can even surprise him anymore.

"Now?" he says incredulously.

"I think it's closed now," Ian laments. "But sometime?"

Mickey just blinks as Ian watches him expectantly.

"Why?" he eventually says, and Ian exhales, before leaning forward and folding his arms across the surface of the table, rather than across his chest.

"Because," he says, picking another french fry from the basket between them and looking away from Mickey in the process. "I wanna take you."

He puts the fry in his mouth as he brings his gaze back up to Mickey's, and Mickey just watches him for a moment. He leans forward as well, mirroring Ian and bringing their faces closer together.

"You wanna take me to the zoo?" he says, his voice a bit lower and his tone somewhere between amused and challenging. Ian nods, humming the affirmative.

"Yeah," he says, finishing off his fry. "Or an aquarium. I know you're more into sharks, than lions."

"And you're buying?" Mickey asks, eyebrows raised. Ian deliberates for about a second, narrows his eyes at his friend's cheeky question.

"Yeah," he settles on. Mickey can't really explain why, but it makes his stomach do a little backflip. He kind of likes it.

He sighs.

"Man, we should've hooked up ages ago," he says lightly. "You've never spoiled me like that before."

He half-regrets saying it, can already feel his ears burning, but to his surprise and relief, Ian just smiles. Grins, actually, and the way he dips his chin a little is something Mickey knows he only does when he's feeling shy, for lack of a better word. It makes Mickey smile himself, and it feels insanely good.

The date runs surprisingly smoothly, from there. Once they get into it, Mickey realizes that there really isn't much difference between this and how they usually hang out, except the fact that now Ian looks at him a bit differently. His expression will soften every now and then, his smile fonder than Mickey is used to, and they'll occasionally just stare at each other for longer than what would be considered appropriate for two friends. It turns out that Ian in courting-mode is something Mickey has definitely missed out on, and he's enjoying it a lot more than he thought he would, awkward nervousness mostly gone by now.

Best of all, he can watch Ian as much as he likes. He doesn't have to pretend that he doesn't appreciate the way his arms look in that t-shirt, or that the way he laughs while bashfully glancing away and smoothing down his hair isn't the most adorable thing Mickey has ever seen. He can't stop watching Ian's eyes and mouth as he talks animatedly, gesturing like he does when he really gets going, and they both burst out laughing several times during the night, settling into the comfortable routine they're used to.

Mickey is baffled at just how comfortable he is, actually. The only thing really keeping him from making any kind of move is the fact that they're surrounded by people. He didn't think he cared, but he does, and he supposes that's to expect. After spending a lifetime faking it and pushing this down, suddenly being able to admit that he in fact wants to touch his best (male) friend in a less-than-platonic way is a lot to deal with, and he can't help but feel like they're being watched. He knows they're not; everyone here is too busy with their own shit to even notice them. It just won't stop nagging at the back of his mind, and Mickey does his very best to ignore it.

It's when it's getting late, one meal and a few beers later, that the atmosphere starts to change. Mickey notices the moment Ian's expression shifts, the way he leans forward a little more pointedly, as though the two of them have to be even closer together to hear what the other is saying.

"Wait," Ian says, laughing. "You've abandoned Tony? After all this time?"

"Yes," Mickey says with a slightly indignant shrug. "I mean, don't get me wrong, he's still got a kickass suit and I like the attitude, but it gets kinda old after a while."

"So who's taken his place, then?" Ian asks, putting his chin in his hand as he leans against the table with his elbow. Mickey shakes his head.

"You're gonna laugh at me," he says, and Ian's eyes go wide.

"Come on," he says, before his features soften. "I'm gonna laugh _with_ you. Might as well tell me who it is."

"Nope."

"No, really," Ian says. "I wanna know who's better than Iron Man, all of a sudden."

"Guess," Mickey says, taking a swig of his third beer for the night. He's not drunk, only pleasantly buzzed.

Ian scrunches up his face in thought.

"Thor?" he says, and Mickey pulls back a bit.

"Is that what you think of me?" he says.

"Well, I've got literally nothing to go on," Ian points out.

"Just 'cause he's your favorite don't mean he's mine."

"Give me a hint, then."

"Nope."

Ian keeps pondering, and Mickey watches him, waiting.

"Okay," Ian eventually says, all business. "I'd say Steve, but you think he's too nice, and you like the ambiguous ones. Maybe Natasha?"

Mickey shakes his head.

"Close," he admits. "Well, close second."

Ian narrows his eyes to an almost comical degree.

"So, morally ambiguous," he says, thinking out loud, "badass, but not Natasha. Bucky?"

Mickey says nothing, just cocks his head in confirmation, and Ian's eyebrows go up.

"Since when?" he exclaims, as though affronted.

"Since _Winter Soldier,_ " Mickey retorts, throwing up his hands. "How can you not agree with this?"

"He's not even an Avenger," Ian says, straightening where he sits.

"So?"

"So," Ian says, "it doesn't count."

"You don't count," Mickey snaps childishly, but Ian takes it in stride.

"How did I not know about this?" he says, folding his arms.

"You didn't ask." Mickey takes a swig of beer. "Just 'cause you got a thing for flowing locks and chiseled abs."

He means it as a teasing jab, but he can tell by Ian's expression that it just backfired. Instead of looking lightly offended, Ian just looks amused, and he smiles.

"Chiseled abs, huh?" he says, and Mickey can sense it coming. "Been paying a lot of attention to those?"

"Fuck off," Mickey mutters, sipping his beer, while Ian just smiles wider.

"You know, Bucky's abs are pretty sweet, too," Ian says. "Even if his locks could use some work."

"Alright, you know what?" Mickey says. "Forget it. Let's move on, okay?"

Ian chuckles, leaning forward again. Mickey is still sitting with his elbows against the table, and it allows Ian to bring their faces excruciatingly close together.

 _God, he's so pretty._ Mickey wants to kiss him so hard it hurts.

"Okay," Ian says, but there's something different about his expression now. He looks determined, much like he did seconds before kissing Mickey in his kitchen for the first time, and just the sight of it makes a warm feeling pool in Mickey's gut.

It also makes that fear spike, the worry he has felt in the back of his mind since they stepped inside this bar. There are people everywhere. Anyone could see.

His heart starts pounding in a borderline unpleasant way.

Ian seems to hesitate, before he slowly slides his hand across the small space between them and reaches Mickey's, fingertips trailing over the scrawled tattoos and making Mickey feel like he's handling a live wire. It makes his skin tingle, and it occurs to him that Ian has never ever touched him like this before. He can't take his eyes off Ian's, can't look away, not even when Ian's gaze flicks to his mouth, as though asking for permission, and when Ian leans in just a little bit closer, he can hear a strange roaring in his ears. The murmur of the people around them is suddenly louder, and Mickey is somehow completely certain that if he turned to look, he'd find every single person in here staring at him. Staring at him and Ian.

Mickey surprises himself by suddenly jerking his hand away, abruptly getting up and abandoning his beer. He doesn't even grab his jacket, just pushes his way out of the booth and through the crowded bar, out onto the street, where he immediately starts making his way down the sidewalk. It's dark now, and he ignores the few odd looks thrown his way, while he tries to slow down his breathing. He didn't realize he was practically hyperventilating, until now.

"Mickey?" Ian's voice breaks through the still summer night, and Mickey takes a deep breath. He stops walking, still pretty close to the bar's entrance, and turns around. Ian spots him almost at once, and walks over to him. "Hey. What's wrong?"

Mickey drags his hands down over his face, finally getting his bearings, and he takes a deep breath. He feels like his chest is about to explode, and not in a good way.

"Mickey," Ian prompts gently. "What's―?"

"I'm gay," Mickey blurts, throwing his hands up and looking at Ian, who just blinks. He's got a stunned expression on his face, and he seems just as confused as Mickey as to why the hell Mickey just said that. At least Mickey didn't say it loud enough for anyone but perhaps two or three other people nearby to hear.

"Okay," Ian eventually says, and Mickey realizes how dumb his declaration sounds, seeing as how they're on a fucking _date_ at the moment.

It almost distracts him from the fact that he hasn't actually said this out loud before. But once he starts, he can't seem to stop talking.

"I mean," he says, searching for the words, a little out of breath. "Not just for you, or whatever. I'm... You know." He makes a frustrated sound, gestures a little, pointlessly. "And I'm fine with that, just― I mean, just 'cause we know don't mean everybody else has to yet."

He motions between the two of them, hoping that he's making at least a little bit of sense. He can't really put it any other way, and Ian nods slowly. He looks a little hurt, but it subsides quickly, and he doesn't mention it.

"Okay," he says instead, again, stunned expression fading. He nods, half-shrugs, as though unsure how to respond. "You wanna talk about it?"

Mickey gives him an incredulous look.

"Right fucking now?" he practically snaps. "No thanks."

"Alright," Ian says in a calming tone, moving a little closer to his friend, but still keeping a respectable distance. Mickey notices that he's holding not only his own jacket in his hand, but Mickey's as well. "Okay. You wanna get out of here, then? Maybe go back to my place?" Mickey raises his eyebrows, and Ian grimaces. "And maybe pretend that didn't sound so suggestive, just now?"

Mickey keeps his eyebrows raised, a little amused now, which thankfully drowns out most of his budding anxiety attack. Ian, meanwhile, is visibly embarrassed.

"What?" he says. Mickey shrugs, feeling himself relax now that he can focus on Ian instead. He also appreciates Ian not making a huge deal out of his confession, at least not out here on the sidewalk of some bar.

"Nothing," he says. "I kinda like seeing you like this."

"Like what?"

"This." Mickey gestures at him. "All nervous, and fumbling, and shit. It's new. I like it."

"I'm not fumbling," Ian says, a bit too quickly, and Mickey snaps it up.

"But you're nervous?" he says. Ian doesn't reply, and Mickey smiles smugly, hiding his own uncomfortable feelings and prompting a sigh and an eye-roll from Ian, both clever attempts at masking his reaction, as well.

"You wanna get out of here, or not?" he says, and Mickey nods, thankful for the distraction.

"Yeah," he says, still smiling. "Lead the way."

 

* * *

 

Ian feels an odd kind of pressure as he and Mickey step in through his front door. He remembers having the occasional guy over back when he was in high school, and he must admit that this feels a little like that. It's giddy and kind of nervous, like he's trying to make a good first impression on his crush, even though that ship sailed about three years ago, and he forces himself not to hold the door open for Mickey as they enter. That would be too much, and Mickey would most definitely notice. And probably make fun of him.

While the date went great, in Ian's opinion, Mickey just storming out of it suspended the magic a bit. He was confused at first, scared that Mickey had suddenly changed his mind and decided that he in fact _didn't_ want to date Ian, and when he found Mickey wandering around outside, he was expecting the worst. He wasn't expecting Mickey to suddenly come out, outright say it, to Ian's face, that he was gay.

It was strange hearing that. The good kind of strange, but strange nonetheless. Because although Ian has wondered about the fact that Mickey suddenly seems to like him that way Ian wants him to, ascribing that particular term to Mickey is something he hasn't quite been able to do before. Maybe because it felt like wishful thinking; there was no way Mickey would be gay, after all. Ian would have picked up on it, somehow. Except he didn't, and he's starting to think it's because Mickey didn't even pick up on it himself. It makes him kind of sad.

"So," Mickey says, once they're inside and safely within the confines of Ian's home. He rubs at his bottom lip with his thumb. "How would this normally play out, then?" Ian frowns. "When you bring a guy back here."

The question takes Ian a little by surprise, and he can tell that Mickey feels awkward asking it. He shrugs.

"Honestly?" he says, in an attempt at lightening the mood. "We'd probably be in there, by now."

He gestures toward his bedroom, and Mickey looks over his shoulder, nodding. When he turns back to Ian, his gaze is averted, and he's running his tongue along his back teeth in a gesture Ian knows as less than comfortable.

"But these aren't exactly normal circumstances," Ian says, moving in a little closer. He wants to reassure Mickey, doesn't want him to feel like Ian is expecting anything of him. "And you're not just any guy. You know that, right?"

Mickey looks up at him. He doesn't look like he knows that, but he still nods.

"Sure," he practically mutters, dismissively. "Whatever."

Ian feels a small, fond smile tug at the corner of his mouth, and he's not even sure why.

"Mick," he says. "You're not just a guy. You're _the_ guy."

Mickey frowns, awkwardness gone in place of slightly annoyed confusion. Honestly, it's the only kind of confusion he ever shows, like the feeling itself is what annoys him.

"What does that mean?" he asks, and Ian realizes how cheesy it sounded. But that doesn't really stop him from elaborating.

"You're the guy I actually like," he says, a little carefully. He's still having a hard time gauging what he can and can't do or say to Mickey, where this is concerned. "The one I actually wanna be with. It's different."

Mickey swallows. He seems thrown by Ian's words, and for a second, Ian is afraid he just scared him off.

"Right," Mickey says, putting Ian's worries to rest. He sounds like the one word is hard to say, and he looks away, taking a deep breath. If the situation weren't so serious somehow, Ian would find his current reactions adorable. Mickey gestures lamely with his hand. "So, uh... How does that usually play out, then?"

 _God,_ Ian is so in love with this idiot.

"Not sure," Ian says, truthfully. "Haven't tried it, yet."

Mickey meets his eye.

"No?" he asks. He sounds almost hopeful.

"No," Ian says, shaking his head. He presses his lips together, deliberating. Honestly, he can think of only one thing he wants to do right now, but when he tried earlier, Mickey literally ran away. He's hoping that was just because of the circumstances, because judging by Mickey's expression at the moment, Ian isn't the only one thinking about it.

He licks his lips.

"I, uh," he starts, moving in a little bit closer. Mickey doesn't move. "I had fun tonight."

"Yeah," Mickey says, nodding. "Me too."

The silence around them is suddenly deafening.

"Good," Ian says. "That's good."

 _Idiot._ If he could smack himself, he would. Meanwhile, Mickey is just looking at him, half-expectantly, and Ian takes a deep breath.

_Fuck it._

It's strange how kissing Mickey is both new and familiar, at the same time. As Ian leans down and presses their lips together, it's like taking a gulp of air after nearly drowning, and he closes his eyes as Mickey's mouth immediately shapes to his. _God,_ he has wanted to do this all night, for the past two days, for the past three years, and he puts his hand behind Mickey's neck to pull him closer. Mickey complies, and Ian feels high, tattooed hands sliding up along his chest in a way that makes his breath hitch, possessive and searching, all at once. They settle above Ian's shoulders, by the curve of his neck, and the way Mickey relaxes his entire body is all the reassurance Ian needs.

He's already entirely sure that he'll never get tired of kissing Mickey Milkovich.

While Ian feels like he could totally go into complete teenage-makeout mode, Mickey very subtly slows it down, and when they pull apart, he takes a slow breath.

"Whoa," he says, eyes half-closed and cast downward, so quietly that Ian barely hears it, and he wonders if Mickey meant to say that out loud. Regardless, it sends his brain into a tailspin, and it takes everything he has not to say it as well.

_Whoa, indeed._

"You good?" he asks instead, since he can sense that something is off, even through his euphoric haze. Mickey nods.

"Yeah," he says, meeting Ian's gaze. "Just... Trying to get used to this."

He gets an odd look as he says it, as though he didn't quite mean to say it at all.

"Yeah," Ian agrees, not mentioning how he could dive right into this new paradigm of theirs and be completely happy with it. As far has he knows, he has had a lot longer to get used to the idea, after all.

Neither of them says anything for a couple of beats, and Ian can sense the tension creeping in. He slides his hand down from Mickey's neck to his upper arm, while Mickey pulls his hands away from Ian. It seems to relax him a bit.

"What do you wanna do?" Ian asks lightly, eyebrows raised. He quirks a small smile. "We could watch something."

Mickey scoffs, a smile creeping into his expression, as well.

"Is it a good time for that?" he asks pointedly, with _this is supposed to be a date_ insinuated at the end, and Ian puts on a mock-affronted face.

"It's always a good time for that," he says. He releases Mickey's arm and takes a step back, heading toward the kitchen. "I'll get us something to drink, you pick the entertainment."

Mickey raises an eyebrow, but with one more prompting look from Ian, he gives in.

"Alright," he says, heading for the TV. "What do you want?"

Ian frowns, thinking, as he opens the fridge.

"Surprise me," he calls, and hears a grumbled reply from Mickey. It's weirdly pleasing to hear. If Mickey is comfortable, Ian is happy, and he gets the feeling that the best way to ease into this whole thing is to just make it as non-weird as possible. That is, just hang out like they normally would, in ways they both know they both enjoy. It seems to be working pretty well, so far. Honestly, the line is starting to blur for Ian; he has never really experienced the sensation of being so damn attracted to someone he simultaneously prefers hanging out with, over pretty much anything else in the world.

He grabs a couple of beers and heads into the living room, where Mickey is just sitting down on the couch. He looks up as Ian approaches, and accepts the beer that's handed to him.

"So, what do we got?" Ian asks, sitting down, and Mickey gets an almost wicked look in his eye.

"It's a surprise," he drawls, and Ian feels a twinge of suspicion. It's only when a movie starts playing on the TV that his expression morphs into one of amused exasperation.

"Of course," he says dryly, as _Captain America: Winter Soldier_ starts playing. "Should have seen that coming."

"Yes, you should've," Mickey says smugly, leaning back in his seat and putting one foot up on the edge of the coffee table, as he brings his beer up to his mouth.

"My own fault, I guess," Ian says, leaning back and unconsciously mirroring his friend's position.

"Completely."

Ian glances to his right, catching Mickey's eye as he does the same, and he can't help the smile that spreads across his face. The fact that Mickey has the same reaction, even as he turns back to the TV, is everything.

One could almost think that this is an ordinary night. As they watch the movie, they bicker and tease and comment like they would any other occasion like it, and the only difference really is Ian subtly moving closer and closer to Mickey. He's not sure Mickey notices, although he must, and by the time the movie nears the end, Ian is practically pressed up against him. He wants to talk about this, wants to ask Mickey so many things―most importantly, where the hell these reciprocating feelings of his came from, and how long they've been there―but he keeps his mouth shut. It's not the time for that. He may be comfortable about the whole thing, but he knows Mickey would just clam up and pull away, seeing as how verbal communication has never really been his forte.

The beers have been finished off long ago, empty bottles now standing on the coffee table, and it frees up Ian's hand to do other things. Such as very slowly, gradually, move from his own leg to Mickey's, fake-accidentally at first, but then more deliberately. He glances at Mickey's face, waiting for a reaction, but although there's a hint of surprised trepidation there, he doesn't object. He still keeps his eyes on the TV, engrossed in the final showdown of the movie. Ian's hand is resting on Mickey's knee, and he slowly slides it up a bit further, to his thigh, and this time he notices a proper reaction; Mickey swallows, adam's apple bobbing in the periphery of Ian's vision.

Ian knows Mickey would tell him if he wanted him to back off, there's no doubt about that. It's kind of comforting to know.

When the movie credits start, a different kind of atmosphere settles over the room. Ian has spent the past two hours wanting to touch Mickey, and now there's nothing left to distract either of them. He turns his head, only to find Mickey doing the same, and after what feels like several, long seconds of just staring, Ian can feel his own resolve crumble. He vaguely wonders if Mickey has any issue with him kissing him all the time, but any doubt he might have vanishes once Mickey leans in the slightest bit. Ian accepts the invitation.

He doesn't ease into it this time, and neither does Mickey. Instead, it's open mouths and searching hands, Mickey pushing his tongue past Ian's lips and firmly digging his fingers into his hair, and Ian knows his knees would buckle if he were standing, right now. He keeps his hand on Mickey's thigh, slowly moves it even further up, while Mickey tilts his body to deepen the kiss. It provides a much better angle for the both of them, and Ian emits a small, surprised moan as Mickey arches against him the slightest bit. It prompts him to move his hand further, using his other hand to cup Mickey's face as Mickey pulls him closer, and _god_ the little moan he gets from Mickey is like fucking music.

Ian's mind is reeling. After wanting this for so long, he still can't quite believe it's happening, and he can feel himself getting hard as his breathing gets heavier, Mickey groaning softly into his mouth as Ian kneads his thigh. He's almost at his groin now, and Ian just wants to touch him, wants to feel his body react and squirm, all of it.

Mickey is hard, that much Ian has time to register when he puts his hand between his legs and applies some pressure, _really_ hard, and _fuck_ , it nearly makes Ian's head explode. It doesn't last very long though, before Mickey suddenly jerks away, prompting Ian to do the same. He removes his hand, pulls back as Mickey sucks in a sharp breath, deliberately moving just a little bit further down the couch. It's not exactly far―their legs are just short of touching―but Ian gets the point. He swallows dryly, averts his eyes.

"Sorry," he says. "I'm sorry, I didn't―"

"Don't be fucking sorry," Mickey says, in a rush, and Ian snaps his mouth shut. He still looks away, while he can hear Mickey calming down next to him. He sounds like he's trying to even out his breathing, and Ian can hear him swallow hard. The credits of the movie are still rolling, and Ian glances at them, thinking.

Eventually, he sighs, scratches the back of his head.

"Um," he says, looking up. "We don't have to, or anything―"

"What?" Mickey interrupts, tone defensive in a way Ian knows is only there to mask uncertainty. Sure enough, the slightly frantic look on his face as he meets Ian's eye confirms it.

"Nothing," Ian says. "I'm just saying that if you don't want to, we don't have to."

Mickey doesn't immediately reply, just watches Ian thoughtfully. Then he glances away again.

"That's not it," he nearly mumbles, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. He shrugs. "I want to, just..."

"Not yet?" Ian suggests, and Mickey snaps his gaze back up.

"Look, I'm kinda new at this shit, alright?" he bites, frowning. "And it's _you,_ and just― It's a lot, okay?"

He turns to the TV, and Ian is confused for a second, before he realizes that Mickey is actually embarrassed. It makes him a little sad, for some reason. He doesn't want Mickey to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed around him, ever. He never has before, so why start now?

Ian hesitates, before shifting a little closer to Mickey, who looks up. He looks like he's torn between scooting away and staying put.

"Mickey," Ian says, once he has his full attention. "You're my best friend. Just because I like you in another way too, that doesn't change. You're still my best friend, there's just... more, now."

Mickey waits for him to elaborate.

"Your point?" he asks, and Ian sighs.

"I'm into whatever you're into," he settles on. "I mean, I wanna do all kinds of stuff with you, trust me. But what you want matters a lot to me, and I've waited this long anyway, so I'm pretty sure I can wait some more."

Mickey swallows, something about Ian's words clearly affecting him, and Ian really hopes it's in a good way.

"What kind of stuff?" he asks, voice flat. The question takes Ian a little by surprise.

Where should he start? The list of things he has accumulated over the past three years is long, and he's not even sure he could say any of it to Mickey's face. Imagining it, wanting it, that's one thing, but to actually tell the object of his affections just what's in his head? That's a whole other deal. Not that Ian has ever been one to shy away from dirty talk, but this is different. This is Mickey, and Ian honestly feels like a teenager, all over again.

He ends up just opening and closing his mouth a few times, before shrugging.

"Stuff," he says, looking down at the small space between them. "You know."

Mickey shifts a little.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and Ian gets the distinct, hopeful feeling that Mickey has had a few fantasies of his own. That shouldn't turn him on as much as it does, and especially not right now.

When Ian turns his gaze up again, Mickey looks like he's got something he wants to say.

"You don't have to wait, or some shit," he says, shaking his head. "I mean, it's not― It's not like that. If you don't wanna―"

"Actually, I kinda do," Ian says, unintentionally interrupting. "Wait, I mean. Take things slow, you know?" Mickey gets a weird look, and Ian elaborates. "I mean, not because I don't want to do anything, because I do. Like, _really_ do. I just..."

He sighs frustratingly, trying to put it into words without sounding like a complete weirdo.

"I always rush this," he says. "Always, you know that. It's always too fast, and I guess that's fine when it's just some random guy. But with you... I kinda wanna take my time. You know?"

Mickey just looks at him, but Ian can sense a certain lightness come over his shoulders. Mickey raises his eyebrows a little.

"That's not like you," he says, clearly trying to ease whatever tension may be left, and Ian chuckles.

"Well, you're not wrong," he says, Mickey tentatively mirroring his easy expression. "But maybe that's the point. I mean it."

Mickey considers that for a moment, then nods.

"Yeah, I get that," he says. He huffs a dry laugh. "I mean, last week I thought I was the only one of us who wanted to do anything at all, and now..." He sighs. "Yeah, I kinda wanna take my time, too."

He smiles weakly, and Ian returns it. The credits are still rolling in the background, like some kind of countdown, and Ian leans in a little bit. Mickey doesn't budge, instead meets him halfway, and the kiss is softer this time, not nearly as hot and heavy as a minute ago. Ian likes it. There's something so... normal about it. Like they just kiss like this all the time.

The kiss doesn't last long, but Ian still stays close when it ends. Mickey sighs into the small space between them.

"It's getting late," he says, a vague question implied, and Ian spends about a second deciding which course he should take, here.

"You could spend the night," he says. It's a bold move―even though Mickey has slept over a million times before, they both know it's different this time―and he waits for Mickey's reaction. When it takes a while, he hurriedly adds, "Just sleep, I mean. Obviously."

Mickey nods, looking as though that's exactly the answer he wanted to hear.

"Sure."

By the time the TV has been shut off and the lights turned out, Ian finds himself feeling oddly expectant, excited almost. He deliberates for a second or so, before deciding to simply wear his usual ensemble of boxers and a tank top to bed, and as he exits the bathroom and shuts off the remaining lights, he notices that Mickey apparently had the same idea. He's already lying in Ian's bed, a palpable, awkward air about him, and he looks over at the door as Ian enters the bedroom. He's lying on his back, covers pulled halfway up his chest.

"Hey," Ian says as he makes his way over to the bed. It's big enough for the both of them, without it being cramped, and Mickey has already occupied one half of it.

"Hey," he says. He fiddles a little with the edge of the covers. "I borrowed this, hope that's okay."

He gestures at his chest, and Ian recognizes the dark green tank top he's wearing as one of Ian's own. He figures that Mickey probably doesn't want to sleep in clothes he'll have to wear again tomorrow, if he can help it, and even though it's far from the first time he has borrowed something, it makes Ian a little giddy.

"Sure," Ian says, crawling in underneath the covers, on his side of the bed. He was going to ask Mickey if he wanted a cover of his own, but it seems that's moot, because he clearly has every intention of sharing the one available.

Ian definitely doesn't mind.

The lamp on Ian's bedside table is the only source of light, and he considers turning it off, but he doesn't move. Both he and Mickey are lying on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, and _god_ , Ian has never been this acutely aware of someone else lying in bed with him. It's like there's an aura around Mickey, like Ian can sense him even without looking, and it's equally inviting and scary.

He feels like a complete idiot, but he just really doesn't want to fuck this up.

"Okay, well," Mickey says after a little while, clearing his throat. "G'night."

He doesn't wait for a reply, instead just rolls over onto his side, facing away from Ian. He's careful not to hog the covers, and Ian turns his head, only to see Mickey's clothed back. He swallows.

"Goodnight," he says, and shuts off the light next to him.

He doesn't move for a few seconds, but then rolls over onto his side as well. If he and Mickey were any closer, they'd practically be spooning, and he indulges that thought for a moment or two. He chews his bottom lip, deliberating.

Ian moves in a little closer, tucks his arm under his pillow as he watches the back of Mickey's head. It's too dark to really see anything; all he can make out is that black hair and the contrasting, pale skin. It's a nice combination, and it feels nice to finally be able to appreciate it the way he wants to, even if it's surreptitiously done.

Another full minute passes without either of them moving, and Ian wonders if Mickey is still awake. He must be, right? Ian is nervous as hell about having Mickey this close to him, under the same covers, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a tank, and he curses silently at himself as that particular notion fills up his mind. He uses all the willpower he has to prevent the rest of his body from catching on; it's a small miracle Mickey is even here, like this, and Ian is not about to ruin it by getting a fucking boner right now.

He takes a few deep breaths. Mickey is close, but he wants him closer. As the untimely arousal quickly subsides, the need to touch Mickey doesn't, and it's not the same, anyway. Ian just wants him close, wants to feel his skin against his own. He has wanted it for ages.

He's pretty sure he's not being particularly subtle, but Ian still tries, as he shifts closer and closer to his friend. He does it in a way that could almost be waved off as him simply moving around in his sleep, and as he gets close enough to just lightly press his chest against Mickey's back, he feels a rush of excitement. It's a soft kind of excitement, the kind that makes his stomach flutter and his heart skip a beat, and he inhales deeply through his nose. It's half to calm down, but also because Mickey just smells so damn _good_ , and Ian has never really gotten to feel it this up close and personal before.

Mickey notices, Ian is certain he does, because as their bodies touch, even through layers of thin cotton, his tenses up just the slightest bit. For a second, Ian is worried that it's in alarm, that Mickey is going to simply get out of bed and sleep on the couch, thanks to Ian's lack of boundaries. Then he recognizes the reaction as surprised, more than anything, and Mickey relaxes slowly against him. Ian smiles, just a little, from sheer excitement. He feels bold.

When Ian slowly moves a hand up and touches his fingers to Mickey's shoulder, Mickey almost flinches, but it's not too bad. Ian waits for some kind of backlash, the objection he knows would come in a heartbeat if Mickey didn't approve, but he hears none. Instead, Mickey relaxes a little again, shifts his weight, and Ian proceeds.

Mickey's skin is softer than he somehow expected. It's a dumb thought―it's not like he has never touched him before―but he can't help it. There's just something so vulnerable about it all, something about the fact that Mickey is lying right next to him, more exposed in so many ways than Ian has ever seen him before. 

The deep inhale is something Ian feels, rather than hears, as Mickey's chest rises along with Ian's tracing fingers moving down his arm. Ian slowly moves his hand to Mickey's elbow, his smile widening as he feels the warm skin there prickle with goose bumps. To his surprise, Mickey lifts his arm just a little, just enough for Ian to slip underneath it and curl his hand up against Mickey's sternum. He settles above his heart, and it's beating faster than Ian expected. It makes him pointlessly hide his own, big smile by nuzzling against the back of Mickey's neck. He feels Mickey hesitate for a moment, before settling his own hand by Ian's―not quite touching, just resting against the mattress―and Ian lets out a deep, content exhale. He closes his eyes.

It ends up being the best night's sleep he has had in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we still call this a slow burn? I don't know. Perhaps a different kind of slow burn. 
> 
> (Also, I like writing kissing scenes, can you tell?)
> 
>  
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	12. He Give Me Toothaches Just From Kissing Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> Update schedule going strong! All the incredible love and encouragement I get for this is mind-blowing, thank you so much. Here's another long chapter for you, enjoy.
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3g0d6Cgqyg))

It takes a moment for Mickey to register where he is, when he wakes up. His first impression is the smell, a comforting, enticing, incredibly familiar smell, enveloping him in a sense of pure contentment. He likes this smell, loves it, and before he even opens his eyes, he presses his nose into the pillow and inhales deeply, really savoring it.

The next thing Mickey notices is the sheets. He realizes he's not lying on Ian's couch for once, but in his bed, and the thought of it makes his throat dry. In one swift moment, everything about last night comes back to him, and he's simultaneously thrilled and mortified. He can't believe he pussied out like some insecure virgin as soon as Ian touched him, when all he really wanted was to mount his friend like a fucking animal and have him do so much more than that.

 _Awesome._ That's exactly what he needs to be thinking about, first thing in the morning.

He's lying on his side, the same way he did when falling asleep last night, and he wonders if he hasn't moved at all, since then. It seems unlikely, but then again, he could barely move a muscle for the better part of twenty minutes once Ian went ahead and fucking spooned him. Not that Mickey minded, at all. It was definitely in the top five of his best experiences to date―number one would be when Ian kissed him, the first time―and he's happy Ian took the initiative. Because Mickey most definitely wouldn't have had the balls for it.

He can't feel Ian pressed up against him now, though. Instead, his back is sorely lacking any kind of physical contact, and Mickey opens his eyes properly. Ian's bedroom is full of light, clearly it's not that early, and he glances around before experimentally stretching his muscles. He hears the soft rustling of sheets behind him, and he takes a breath of preparation, before rolling over onto his back.

Ian is already awake, his eyes wide open and focused directly on Mickey, who feels a little stunned at the sight of it. Ian, meanwhile, just keeps staring. He's lying on his back, too.

"Hey," Mickey says after a moment or so, voice raspy from sleep. Ian quirks a small, soft smile.

"Hey," he says. Silence falls again, while they just stare at each other, until Mickey sighs and glances around the room.

"This is weird," he says, for lack of anything else.

"What is?" Ian asks.

"This," Mickey says, turning back to Ian and gesturing between them. "Waking up like this."

"Well, it's not the first time," Ian points out, settling onto his side so that he can look at Mickey properly. "Remember Colin's bachelor party?"

Mickey huffs a laugh. How could he forget? It was about a year ago―he still can't quite believe his brother managed to find a girl who actually liked him, and with whom he was in love enough to marry. But she's good for him, that much Mickey knows now, since their unexpected marriage is still going strong. He remembers the bachelor party being completely off the hook, both him and Ian waking up on Colin's bed the next morning, with Colin's English mastiff, Abby, sleeping sandwiched between them. They both felt like shit, but it was totally worth it, and Mickey must admit that waking up with Ian took the edge off getting licked in the face by a slobbering behemoth of a dog.

"Yeah," Mickey says, smiling. "But that was... a bit different."

Ian mirrors his smile.

"Yeah," he says. "It was."

Neither of them speaks, smiles slipping away as they keep their gazes locked. Mickey's stomach is full of butterflies, a feeling he most decidedly hasn't felt like this before―which surprises him, given the past few days―and he does his very best to commit Ian's soft expression to memory. He has seen him newly awake about a million times before, both at his best and his worst, but never quite like this. Never under these circumstances.

Ian moves first, shuffling closer and pressing his lips against Mickey's in a surprisingly soft, gentle kiss. It's like a shot of endorphins, and Mickey eases into it, before something self-consciously occurs to him.

"Come on, man," he mutters. "My breath stinks."

Ian hums against his mouth.

"Don't care," he says, continues to kiss him, and Mickey groans softly.

"Your breath fucking stinks, too," he says, but Ian is undeterred.

"Good," he says instead. "Then we're equal."

The kiss deepens, and Mickey just gives in, closing his eyes as their lips move together. He moves his hand to Ian's hip, a little hesitantly, and Ian takes it as his cue to adjust his position. More specifically, he shifts a little before swiftly moving up and straddling Mickey's hips. It makes Mickey's heart stutter, even though there isn't really anything sexual about it. Instead, the way Ian keeps their lips glued together, leaning down over Mickey's body and trailing his fingers up Mickey's arms to gently hold his wrists against the mattress, is nothing but soft. Loving. Sweet.

In other words, completely different from anything Mickey can even remotely compare it to.

Ian's weight feels comfortably heavy on top of him, Mickey immediately decides. When Ian shifts his body just a little, Mickey can't help but arch up against him, in a way that's unconsciously done and which he's not sure Ian even notices. He knows he shouldn't be paying attention to the fact that Ian's crotch is practically pressed against his right now, with only a thin, cotton barrier between them, but he can't really help it. It just feels really good, and he shifts his hips a little to get some friction, his own discomfort from last night momentarily gone. He loves the way Ian sighs against his mouth, and when he moves his hips again, Ian definitely notices.

He doesn't react the way Mickey kind of expects him to, though. Instead, he breaks the kiss, slowly, and pulls away just far enough to get a proper look at Mickey's face. Mickey opens his eyes, wondering if Ian can tell that he's getting hard right now, before he's immediately blown away by the way Ian is just looking at him. He remembers once waking up a hungover Ian with a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and the look of utter bliss Ian had on his face that time is nothing compared to the expression he's wearing right now. It's soft and happy, eyes focused on Mickey's, and Mickey feels like if he opens his mouth, he's going to say a lot of sappy, gay shit he won't be able to take back.

Thankfully, Ian unknowingly comes to the rescue.

"I'm gonna make pancakes," he says, a little bounce in his tone that sounds borderline ridiculous in how cheery it is. Mickey just blinks, taken aback by the sudden change in mood, and he doesn't move a muscle when Ian just climbs off him and gets out of bed. He stretches his arms over his head as he stands up, looks over at Mickey. "You coming?"

Mickey turns to him.

"Yeah," he says, slowly moving his hands away from where they're still resting against the mattress, on either side of his head. "Just, uh... In a minute."

Ian nods, smiling, and heads out of the bedroom, leaving Mickey lying in the bed, dumbstruck. Mickey watches the doorway for a second, before turning his gaze to the ceiling, trying to wrap his head around all of this.

 _"You're_ the _guy."_

Ian's words echo in his memory, still surreal and weird, even after having been replayed in his mind about a thousand times since he heard them. _What the fuck does that even mean?_ It was cheesy as fuck, but Ian honestly can't really surprise him in that department anymore, and Mickey tries to determine just how he should interpret it, this time.

 _"You're_ the _guy."_

Who even says that? Ian does. He just throws shit like that around without realizing how it shakes Mickey's very foundation, somehow, and Mickey wonders if Ian has any idea just what kind of impact those words had.

Mickey groans, drags his hands down over his face. It's too early in the morning for this shit.

He resolves to leave the warmth of the bed and head out to join Ian, only stopping by the bathroom to take a piss, and when he gets to the kitchen, Ian is in full housewife-mode. He's standing by the counter, still wearing only the tank and boxers he wore to bed―just like Mickey―and he's in the middle of gathering various ingredients and dumping them into a large bowl. Mickey eyes him appreciatively, skimming his along his body _. Damn_ , how did he get this lucky?

Ian hears him approach, and he looks over his shoulder.

"Hey," he says with a smile. "Thought you might be sleeping in."

Mickey makes his way over to him.

"And miss pancakes?" he says. "No fucking way."

Ian chuckles.

"I would've brought you some, you know," he says. "Like a breakfast-in-bed type thing."

"Yeah, you would, wouldn't you," Mickey says. "Fucking nerd."

Ian narrows his eyes at him, puts down the bowl and places his hand on Mickey's waist. It's all the warning Mickey gets before Ian leans in and kisses him, all slow and warm and nice, and Mickey feels a little dazed when he pulls away. Then Ian kisses him again, just a peck, and again, and Mickey frowns.

"What're you doing?" he mutters.

"Nothing," Ian says, pecking Mickey's lips again. "I just like kissing you." Mickey raises his eyebrows a little, and Ian sighs. "I've spent a really long time wanting to kiss you, and I never could. Now that I can, I kinda don't wanna stop."

Mickey swallows, an annoying fluttering in his chest distracting him for a moment.

"Yeah?" he says, and Ian nods.

"Yeah," he says, voice almost a whisper as he leans in to lightly brush his lips against Mickey's. It's amazing. "Why, you mind?"

His tone is a little cheeky, and Mickey shakes his head.

"Not really," he says, and Ian smiles.

"Good."

Mickey makes sure to really savor it this time, closing his eyes as Ian softly pries open his lips with his tongue. Mickey honestly couldn't care less about any morning breath right now, too distracted by how fucking _domestic_ this feels―and how much he doesn't mind that―and when Ian pulls away and removes his hand from Mickey's waist, Mickey is a little disappointed. Ian just looks all kinds of happy, though, and he smiles a little as he turns back to his cooking. The batter is only half-done, by the looks of it, and Mickey just stands there for a minute, watching Ian's profile. He looks focused and content, a strand of red hair falling down over his forehead.

_He's so damn pretty._

By the time the pancakes are done, Mickey's stomach is growling with almost embarrassing volume, and Ian snickers at him as they sit down to eat. Where Mickey half-expected the atmosphere to be awkward, or at least a little unfamiliar, it's the complete opposite. They don't even speak for most of the meal, and yet the silence between them is just as comfortable as it has always been.

"So what's on the agenda for the day?" Ian asks when they're finished, and Mickey thinks about it.

"Nothing," he says truthfully. "Not a damn thing."

Ian smiles. It's more of a smirk, really, a playful one.

"No?" he says. "What a coincidence. I'm free, too."

Mickey gasps.

"What?" he says in mock-outraged surprise. "No."

"Yes," Ian says. "What ever will we do to pass the time?"

Mickey makes an exaggerated thinking face.

"There's always the marathon-option―" he says, and is cut off by Ian laughing.

"Come on, I'm trying to be smooth, here," he says. "Don't ruin it with that bro-shit."

"Well, then you gotta work on your game," Mickey says, eyebrows raised. "And it's a good plan. Unless you got a better one?"

He gives Ian a challenging look, and Ian considers it for about a second, before letting out a groan.

"No," he admits petulantly, and sighs as he gets up from the table. He leans down and gives Mickey a light kiss on the mouth. "But I'm picking the show."

The day passes in a pleasant haze, after that. They spend most of it just lounging on the couch, watching various shows and movies, ordering in and not even leaving the apartment for a second. They have nowhere to be, after all, and Mickey can't say he has any issue with spending several hours on the couch with Ian occasionally curled up against him. Ian is clearly more comfortable with the whole cuddling-thing, something Mickey can't really remember ever doing himself, and while it is a bit to get used to, he quickly comes to like it. Every now and then, Ian will look up at him and just touch his face, or his hair, or just stare silently, and Mickey slowly starts to warm up to it―after getting past the strange discomfort it causes him, that is, which he vehemently pushes down. This is Ian, after all, and he has no reason to be uncomfortable or worried.

Once he does get used to it, Mickey realizes he actually kind of loves it. He loves it when Ian looks at him like that, and he wouldn't be surprised if he's looking at him the same way right now. It takes everything he has not to just trail his fingers along Ian's neck, his skin, his gorgeous arms. Then he remembers that Ian is actually into that kind of shit anyway, and he makes the move, much to Ian's apparent joy. He leans into the touch like a cat, settling more comfortably as he half-lies with his head against Mickey's shoulder, or in his lap, closing his eyes and completely ignoring whatever they're watching in favor of focusing on Mickey.

It shouldn't make Mickey feel as exhilarated as it does.

There's more kissing, too. Ian can't seem to resist, and every now and then, he'll move in a little bit closer and get more intense, before pulling back, as though catching himself. Mickey appreciates it―he still feels a bit weird about that whole deal―but it's starting to annoy him a little, too. He _wants_ it, after all. He wants it, he just doesn't know how to deal with that, and he finds himself half-wishing that Ian would just go for it, anyway. But he doesn't, of course, because he's a fucking gentleman, and whenever Ian pulls away, Mickey finds himself irked by the absence of him. He gazes at Ian when he's not looking. He just looks so _good_ , so fucking hot, and the comfortable weight of his body on Mickey's comes to mind. Mickey wants more of that, needs to touch and feel a bit more, and he wonders how best to make that happen without failing miserably at the whole endeavor and making an ass of himself.

They spend yet another night tangled up together in Ian's bed, and this time Mickey even makes an effort. Ian welcomes it, wrapping Mickey up in his arms until Mickey can no longer deal with that furnace-hot skin, and shuffles away, before inevitably finding his way back. Ian has become magnetic, in a much more physical sense than Mickey has ever felt it before, and he's becoming more and more certain that he won't be able to resist giving in to that, much longer―he supposes that's what happens after twenty-four hours of pretty much non-stop physical contact, of the non-platonic kind.

Mickey burrows his face against Ian's neck as his friend snores softly, breathes him in and teeters between sleep and consciousness while vaguely wondering how the hell this even happened. Not that he really cares, anymore. This is hands down the best thing he has ever had, and he's not about to fuck it up.

 

* * *

 

Ian has always loved having Mickey around. Having him this close only makes it better, and after spending an entire lazy Saturday together, they proceed to spend Sunday the same way. The entire weekend is the closest thing Ian has had to a vacation in ages, and he can't think of anything else he'd rather be doing.

He can't stop touching Mickey, not now when he's finally able to, finally allowed. It takes more self-restraint than he generally gives himself credit for to not touch him _too_ much, to back off whenever he can feel himself getting a little too excited, but so far he's managing. And although Mickey says nothing about it, Ian hopes he feels that they're simply honoring the agreement they made the other night.

 _Slow_ is starting to become a mildly frustrating term, however.

They don't leave the apartment all day today, either, and by Sunday afternoon, Ian is honestly on the verge of slipping away for a moment to be alone. Not because he wants to get away from Mickey, but because he wants some privacy; at this point, nearly everything Mickey does turns him on, and he's not sure how much longer he'll be able to handle that tension. It wouldn't be too weird, right? Just slip into the bathroom and rub one out, real quick. Ian feels like a pervert just for thinking it, but he can't help it. If Mickey were any other guy, they would have fucked ages ago, and simply holding off is a very bittersweet experience; it sucks, but Ian can't stop thinking about how amazing it'll undoubtedly be once they finally get around to it.

After all, it's Mickey. It will be worth it.

Ian heads to the kitchen to throw away the containers for the Chinese food they ordered in yesterday, and uses the opportunity to calm himself down a bit. He and Mickey just had a rather intense, albeit restrained makeout session on the couch, and he swears he's getting hard from that alone. This whole celibacy-thing really isn't for him, however finite its duration might be, and he really needs to get his shit together.

The TV is still on in the living room, so Ian doesn't really hear Mickey enter the kitchen. He only reacts when Mickey grabs his arm, making him turn around, and the look on his friend's face takes him a little by surprise. His expression is set, almost angry, but Ian knows that's just how Mickey looks when he's determined, and he doesn't say anything, just waits for Mickey to elaborate. He doesn't. Instead, he puts his hand by Ian's face and kisses him, prompting a soft sound of surprise from Ian.

This is different. Ian can feel it after only a second. More importantly, it occurs to him that this is the first time Mickey is actually kissing _him,_ taking the initiative on his own, and that fact alone is enough to make Ian light up like a powder keg. There's something so hungry about it, fierce, and Ian closes his eyes as he reciprocates, placing his hands on Mickey's hips and tugging him closer. It's with a sense of urgency, because this is fucking _urgent,_ and Mickey makes sure Ian knows that by pushing him backwards until he bumps into the kitchen counter.

_Holy shit._

Mickey presses his body closer, holding Ian's face in his hands and inadvertently encouraging Ian to slide his hands down to Mickey's ass, where a tentative squeeze earns Ian a low, pleased groan. The sound is like a trigger, and Ian inhales deeply, still hesitant beneath the excitement. They just decided to take this slow, and yet here Mickey is, attacking him with his mouth like it's all he has ever been doing. It makes Ian a little light-headed, that fierceness he loves and associates with everything else Mickey does shining through.

The edge of the counter is uncomfortable, but Ian doesn't really care right now, because Mickey is moaning softly against his mouth and pushing his tongue inside, and when he runs his fingers up through Ian's hair, it's mind-blowing. It eggs Ian on, and he slowly, experimentally slides one hand up to Mickey's hip and to his front, where it starts trailing downward. He hesitates, uncertain; this move didn't go so well the other night, after all, and he waits for some kind of pushback. But this time, Mickey does anything but what Ian is expecting. Instead of jerking away, he firmly grips Ian's hand and simply puts it on his dick―which is so hard it almost distracts Ian from the action itself―and Ian's brain explodes.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes, immediately and instinctively applying some pressure with his hand. He realizes that he sounds completely wrecked, already. "Fuck."

Mickey responds by grinding against his hand, now digging his fingers into Ian's hair and groaning at the touch. Ian swallows dryly.

"What happened to taking it slow?" he asks between kisses, completely breathless, and Mickey makes a small noise of impatient consideration.

"Can speed it up a little," he murmurs against Ian's mouth, kissing him again and again and _god_ , Ian's not sure how he ever survived without it.

He groans.

"Just a little," he says. It's like a question and a self-reassurance, at the same time. Mickey hums.

"Yeah," he says, grinding slowly and tugging on his hair. "Just a bit."

That's all the permission Ian needs. Mickey is wearing sweatpants―borrowed from Ian―so there really isn't that much in the way between his cock and Ian's hand, but it's still not enough. It's not nearly enough, and when Mickey moves to kiss his neck, which he hasn't done before, it's more than Ian can take. With a frustrated grunt, he grabs Mickey firmly by the hips and turns them both around, before unceremoniously lifting Mickey up onto the counter and moving in closer to stand between his legs. Mickey is clearly surprised, but after only a brief look of surprise, he dives back in, gripping Ian's hair and crushing their mouths together. Ian never would have pegged Mickey for a hair-grabber, but he can't say he minds; he pulls just hard enough for it to be borderline painful, in the best possible way.

Ian yanks Mickey a little closer to the edge of the counter, so that he can grind up against him and really get some nice friction, and _god_ it's a great angle. He vaguely thinks that maybe they should move somewhere more comfortable, but he can't really focus on anything else right now. Nothing aside from the way Mickey nips at his bottom lip with his teeth― _holy shit,_ when and where did he learn that because it's amazing―and slips his hand up underneath Ian's shirt and smoothes over his back. Right now, this is everything, and Ian gauges Mickey's comfort-level for about a second before realizing that he is _definitely_ into this, and proceeds to shamelessly rut against him. He hasn't really dry-humped anyone since high school, and this is so, so much better than he remembers, all sloppy kisses and fumbling, impatient grinding.

It's perfect.

Mickey hisses a sharp breath between his teeth as Ian rubs their clothed cocks together, slowly at first, but then with more roughness and speed. He actually wraps his legs around Ian's hips to keep him close, arches against the friction and moans loudly when Ian places open-mouthed kisses along his throat, and _fuck_ , Mickey moaning is the hottest thing Ian has ever heard. He firms his grip on Mickey's ass to grind harder against him, slipping his hands below the waistband of the sweats and making Mickey groan as he pulls Ian's mouth back to his own. Ian can't believe this is happening.

It builds quickly, a weekend's worth of sexual frustration―and honestly, a hell of a lot more than that―rising to the surface, and Ian is so hard he can barely think straight. The way Mickey moves against him and kisses him like he's starving isn't helping, and it's not long before he can feel himself reaching the breaking point.

"I'm gonna―" Ian starts, but is cut off by the pleasant sensation of Mickey digging blunt fingernails into his back. Ian groans, an almost desperate sound. " _Fuck._ "

It's a breath, more than an articulated word, and the way he says it clearly makes Mickey feel perhaps a little too pleased with himself. It lures a low, growl-like moan from his throat, and he hotly kisses Ian's neck, his collarbones, as much as he can reach, encouraging Ian's impending orgasm rather than preventing it.

"Mick," Ian breathes, panting as he presses their bodies as close together as he possibly can, Mickey breathing heavily and egging him on. "Shit―"

He comes hard, a moan ripping from his throat as he squeezes his eyes shut and stills entirely, hands tight on Mickey's body while he swears his legs might fold underneath him at any moment, and _fuck_ if it's not the best feeling in the world. It takes him a second to realize that Mickey's hand is gone from his back, the other still secured tightly in his hair, and when Ian blearily opens his eyes, it's to the sight of Mickey's half-closed ones looking completely blissed-out. His hand is below the hem of his own sweatpants, and the moment Ian realizes that he's actually jerking off, he's certain he could get hard again any moment. He doesn't hesitate, just presses his lips against Mickey's, and it seems to be all Mickey needs to finish. He lets out a strangled moan as he comes, tensing up and gripping Ian's hair so hard it properly hurts this time, before relaxing and practically sagging where he sits.

Ian pulls away and opens his eyes, heart pounding against his ribs. Mickey's eyes are closed, lips parted and swollen red, pale skin flushed. It's beautiful.

Ian swallows dryly, watches him for a moment.

"Mickey?" he says, still panting, and Mickey hums in response. "You're definitely my best friend."

It's an undoubtedly dumb thing to say, and Mickey rightfully huffs a breathless laugh.

"Oh, fuck off," he says, eyes still closed as he leans his head back against the cupboards, and Ian grins. He kisses Mickey's exposed throat, earning a groan in return.

"Bestest friend I ever had," he says, and Mickey swats his arm, making Ian laugh.

He can think of no better way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

 

"Come on, man," Mickey says a few hours later, half-heartedly pushing Ian away. It doesn't really feel like he's actually trying, and it doesn't really help in convincing Ian that he has to go. "I got work tomorrow."

Ian emits a small, petulant sound, and yanks Mickey even closer. He plants a wet kiss on his neck, and he can practically feel Mickey shiver, much to his satisfaction. They're standing in the hall, Mickey already dressed and ready to leave for the night.

"Exactly," Ian murmurs against his skin. "Tomorrow. What's the rush?"

"Look, it's hard enough to leave as it is," Mickey says dryly. "There's no fuckin' way I'm getting up at the ass crack of dawn tomorrow. It just ain't gonna happen."

"And why's that?" Ian asks, and Mickey scoffs.

"You know why," he says, but the fondness in his tone overshadows any harsh edge he may have intended. Ian pulls back, meets his eye.

"Is that your way of saying I'm irresistible?" he says, leaning in and giving Mickey's cheek a soft peck.

"Hey, you're the one clinging like a fuckin' octopus," Mickey points out. "I'm just standing here."

Ian raises his eyebrows, chews his bottom lip.

"Mhm," he says. "So you're totally innocent then, are you?"

The smirk Mickey throws his way makes him look like a bit like an angel whose halo has been knocked askew.

"Totally," he says. Ian can't help but grin.

"Five more minutes?" he vainly asks, rubbing his thumb against Mickey's hip and pointedly pressing himself a little closer. Mickey, however, has clearly amassed some kind of self-control that Ian really doesn't possess right now; despite the sharp intake of breath, he deliberately grabs Ian's hands and removes them from his body, while taking a step back.

"Goodbye, Ian," he says pointedly. He sounds somewhere between amused and frustrated, and Ian, being the good person that he is, complies. He sighs heavily, puts his hands in his pockets to keep them in check.

"Goodbye, Mickey," he says, smile still in place, and Mickey backs toward the door. "See you tomorrow?"

He tries to sound suave, rather than hopeful.

"Maybe," Mickey says, seemingly unable to help smiling, himself. He grabs the handle and pushes the front door open, eyes still on Ian. It's only after three more seconds of staring that he steps forward and plants a hard kiss on Ian's mouth, before quickly moving away and heading out into the hallway outside. Ian doesn't really get a chance to respond, just laughs breathlessly, and he peeks out through the open door to see Mickey hurry down the hallway and out of sight.

Ian leans against the doorframe, a no doubt huge, dopey smile on his face.

He can't wait until tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

It becomes a thing. Mickey comes over the next day, and the next, and although this only ramps up their hanging-out frequency to just slightly above average, how they pass that time is definitely different. It consists of a lot of kissing, a lot of grinding, and even though it makes Mickey feel like a horny sixteen-year-old, he does like the dry-humping. It sets a nice pace, although while he thought hooking up that first time would help quench his restlessness a bit, it has only accomplished the opposite. The hunger has turned obsessive, and he finds that it's making it more and more difficult to take things slow.

It's ridiculous.

But nonetheless, they do their best to keep up that arrangement―just because they actually got off together, which admittedly was all kinds of hot, Mickey isn't quite confident enough to do much more than that. Yet. As it is, they still spend a lot of their time just hanging out, and by the middle of the week, they're sitting on the roof of Mickey's apartment building, sharing a joint, gazing out over the city. Admittedly, it's not the best view, but it's pretty sweet, and at night it's even better.

They sit in silence for a while, until Mickey hears Ian's phone _ding_ with a text alert, and Ian picks it up. He lets out a small groan, and Mickey turns to him.

"What?" he asks.

"It's Mandy," Ian says. "She wants to know where I've been these past few days."

"Yeah?" Mickey says, taking a drag.

"Yeah," Ian confirms, putting the phone down again without replying. "Or, more specifically, where _we've_ been. She wants to talk to you, too."

"I know," Mickey says, passing Ian the joint. "I've kinda been avoiding her."

"Why?" Ian asks, and Mickey shrugs.

"Don't know," he says. "Figure she's gonna ask, and I'm not gonna be able to lie."

Ian chuckles, fully aware of how Mandy is like a bloodhound when it comes to gossip and secrets, particularly when it comes to her brother and her friend.

"Sounds fair," he says, bringing the joint to his mouth. "Should probably tell her soon, though."

Mickey grunts. He knows Ian isn't wrong, he just still isn't looking forward to telling _anybody._ He likes this little bubble him and Ian have, and he doesn't feel like leaving it anytime soon.

Silence falls for a minute or so, the soothing sounds of the city filling the air, until Ian exhales heavily, slowly, lazily sagging against the wall as he passes Mickey back the joint. Mickey accepts it, puts it between his lips and takes a slow, long drag.

"Hey," Ian says. "Can I ask you something?"

Mickey hums his permission, and he can practically sense Ian fidgeting beside him.

"How long?" Ian eventually says, and Mickey turns to him. Ian meets his eye. "How long have you... felt, you know."

He motions with his hand a bit, and Mickey finds the lack of his usual eloquence endearing. He turns his gaze ahead again.

"Don't know, man," he says truthfully, his guard dropping. "Few weeks? Few months, years?"

Ian's hand shows up in the periphery of his vision, and he hands him the joint.

"What do you mean?" Ian asks. Mickey shrugs.

"I don't know," he repeats. "It just... started. Came out of nowhere. But when it did, it kinda felt like it had always been there, you know?"

He turns to Ian, who keeps his eyes on him. He seems to be considering Mickey's answer.

"When did it start?" he asks, bringing the joint to his lips. This time, Mickey feels a little more hesitant about telling him, but he figures, why not. It's not like he had any reason to hide shit from Ian before this whole mess started. He runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth.

"A while back," he says. "With that Instagram shit you pulled."

Ian frowns, and for a second, Mickey is worried that he doesn't remember. Then Ian's face animates.

"Wait, what?" he says. "That was like two months ago." Mickey just shrugs. "You're saying you've felt that way for the past two months, and you never told me?"

"What the fuck was I supposed to say?" Mickey bites, frowning, but his tone doesn't carry too much force.

"The truth," Ian says, like it's the simplest thing in the world, and Mickey gives him an incredulous look. Neither of them speaks for a second, and Mickey holds his hand out, Ian passing him the joint. He looks straight ahead, stares absent-mindedly at the nearly burned-out butt between his fingers.

"Not everybody gets to blurt out how they fuckin' feel, every minute," he mutters. He doesn't mean to say it, but it slips out anyway, and he keeps his mouth from saying anything else by occupying it with the joint.

Ian says nothing, next to him. Mickey's words hang in the air, and eventually, he sighs, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Yeah," he says. He sounds tired. "I get that."

That's it, that's all he says. It's all that needs to be said. Ian knows enough about Mickey's childhood, his teen years, to know that 90% of the time, blurting out feelings wasn't exactly an option. Especially not this kind of feelings. Despite the fact that Mickey managed to leave that life years ago doesn't change the effect it had on pretty much his entire world view.

Mickey chews his lip.

"What about you?" he asks, feeling brave, as he holds out the last of the joint to Ian. Ian takes it.

"Always," he says, so simply, and Mickey turns to him.

"What?" he says.

"Since day one," Ian says. "First time I met you. It's come and gone, but it's always been there."

Mickey just blinks in stunned disbelief, lets that sink in for a minute. He licks his lips.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asks, but he's pretty sure he knows the answer. Sure enough, Ian huffs a humorless laugh.

"If I had told you back then," he says, "would you really have been okay with it?"

Mickey wants to say yes. He wants to say that of course he would have been okay with it, he would have been overjoyed. He wants to say it, because he wants it to be true. But he knows that it isn't. Regardless of whether or not he has actually felt this way about Ian this whole time, he wasn't able to really see it, accept it, much less indulge it, until very recently.

He ends up not saying anything, but Ian gets the message. He nods, glances at the joint in his hand, before bringing it to his mouth. He inhales deeply, but instead of blowing the smoke back out, he keeps his mouth closed, leaning in as he motions for Mickey to do the same. Mickey complies, and Ian doesn't need to tell him to part his lips and breathe in as Ian softly exhales the smoke into his mouth. They've never actually done this before, and while Mickey realizes that it's not necessarily a sexual thing, it feels oddly intimate. The way Ian feathers his fingers across his jaw only enhances the sensation, and when the smoke dissipates, he presses his lips to Mickey's in a soft, tender kiss. He pulls away again, just a little bit, keeps his hooded eyes on Mickey's.

"I'm really glad you like me back," he says in a low voice, his tone half-serious and half-joking.

 _I don't just like you, I love you,_ Mickey thinks to himself. _I love you so fucking much._

He quirks a small smile.

"Yeah," he says. "Me too."

Ian mirrors his smile, before sighing and giving him another quick kiss.

"Come on," he says, making a move to get up. "I'm hungry, and I know for a fact you've got pretzels in your kitchen."

"Yeah, 'cause you bought 'em," Mickey says, as Ian stands up. "And I'm pretty sure they went bad like six months ago."

"Pretzels don't go bad," Ian says matter-of-factly, as he holds his hand out. Mickey grabs it, pulling himself up from the dirty surface of the roof.

"Agree to disagree," he says. "I'm not fucking touching those."

"Good," Ian says, as they head back toward the door leading to the stairwell. "More for me."

"Dumbass," Mickey mutters, smacking the back of Ian's head lightly with his hand.

" _Your_ dumbass," Ian responds, throwing his arm over Mickey's shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Mickey allows himself to lean into Ian as he says it, a small smile on his face, feeling content and uncharacteristically confident in that promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much (rambly) fluff, you guys. But there is more plot to come in the next chapter, for realsies.
> 
>  
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	13. Now If We're Talking Body (You Got A Perfect One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> Thank you, my lovelies, once again for all your love and support. You're awesome.  
> (and yes, it's time to change the rating)
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlYbDjwBe2Y))

"I mean, what the fuck, Ian?"

Ian nearly flinches at the sharp tone in Mandy's voice, but quickly smoothes his features into an expression of calm. His friend is pissed, and rightly so. If they weren't in a public setting, he's pretty sure she would do more than just hiss at him angrily. Over the past few minutes, she has already asked the same question twice.

"I know," Ian says in a placating tone. "I know, I've just been busy."

Mandy scoffs.

"Busy with what?" she says. "I swear, first Mickey, now you? I mean, I get my asshole brother ignoring me, but you're supposed to be better than that. He hasn't even answered my texts in like, three days."

She folds her arms over her chest and slumps in her seat, disgruntled and almost hurt in a way that makes her look like a child. Ian feels a little bad.

"Yeah," he says vaguely, with a sigh. "You could just ask him about it, you know."

He says it with a tiny sliver of hope. Although he knows that Mickey's suggestion to keep their new relationship from Mandy for the time being was a good one, he's having a hard time with it. Not only because he's keeping something from Mandy, but because he wants to just _tell someone._ He's finally with the guy he has wanted for years―although, he still isn't sure what they are now exactly, since they haven't talked about it―and he could just burst with excitement. He wants to tell everybody, wants to shout it from the rooftops, the whole shebang. How can Mickey keep it to himself like that, so effortlessly?

Ian makes sure not to let his mind go to the worst-case scenario in place of an actual explanation.

Basically, he's hoping that Mandy will ask, and that Mickey, as he himself put it, won't be able to lie.

"Hey, he can be a bitch if he wants to," Mandy says defensively, eyebrows raised. "Fuck do I care."

Ian smiles a little, amused.

"Sure," he says, bringing his drink to his mouth. Mandy finally managed to talk him into actually hanging out, and they're having lunch together while they're both on break from work. So far, Ian has managed to dodge any more specific questions about how he has been spending his past week―mentioning that he has spent time with Mickey was smoothly done, and didn't exactly raise any suspicion, for obvious reasons.

"So, how's the apartment hunt going?" Ian asks, diverting the attention away from himself, and Mandy visibly perks up.

"It's going," she says. "We found a place that looks pretty good. I mean, there's probably rats or asbestos, or some shit, it's almost _too_ good. But yeah, it might be the one. Fifth time's the charm, right?"

Ian nods.

"Right," he says. "And you're still getting along?"

Mandy smiles, this time. She looks almost relieved.

"Yeah," she says, nodding as she straightens in her seat to receive the food that's finally being brought to their table. "She's awesome, actually. It's nice."

She looks down at her plate as the server leaves, an odd look on her face. Ian frowns.

"What?" he asks, and Mandy meets his eye. She shrugs.

"I don't know," she says. "It's just... I never really had many friends who were girls. At least not good ones, they were all bitches, really. But Karen is nice. We get along. She doesn't say mean shit to me or put me down, or anything. I just think I'm starting to see the appeal of female friends, or whatever."

She mumbles that last part and looks back down at her food, poking it with her fork. The way she so strikingly resembles Mickey right now is endearing, and Ian can't help but smile. He nudges her leg under the table.

"About time," he says, making her look back up. "Maybe you'll have someone else to be pissed at for not answering your texts."

Mandy curves her mouth into a smile, eyes narrowed, and kicks Ian a little too hard under the table. It smarts a little, but Ian just laughs.

"Asshole," Mandy says fondly.

"But seriously, though," Ian says, laughs subsiding. "She seems great. I like her."

Mandy sucks on her bottom lip.

"Yeah?" she asks. Ian nods.

"Yeah."

"Well, good," Mandy says haughtily, digging into her food. "'Cause there will be more forced hangouts, in the future."

Ian just smiles, and finds that he wouldn't mind that in the least.

 

* * *

 

"You think we should tell Mandy?" Ian asks, snapping Mickey out of his pleasant afternoon daze. He looks down at Ian's head resting in his lap.

"What?" he asks dumbly, and Ian turns away from the TV to look up at him. Mickey is stunned at how amazing he looks from this angle, and wonders how contrastingly stupid he must look from Ian's point of view, right now.

"She's feeling ignored," Ian says, and Mickey scoffs.

"That's because she is," he says simply, earning a slap on his arm from Ian.

"I'm serious," Ian says. "Maybe we should just tell her. I mean, we can't lie forever."

"Technically, we're not lying," Mickey points out, but mostly to ease his own guilt about it.

"We're lying by omission," Ian says. "She knows something's up, even if she doesn't know what. And besides, we're family, right? Shouldn't she, you know...?"

He trails off awkwardly, gesturing with his hand. Mickey furrows his brow.

"What?" he prompts, and Ian does a weird-looking, lying-down shrug.

"Give us her blessing?" he says, very hesitantly. "Or something?"

Mickey doesn't really know how to reply to that. All he can think about is why Ian would want someone's _blessing_ , as though what they're doing is important. Granted, it is monumental to Mickey, but he just kind of always figured that Ian wouldn't take it as seriously, and he shifts uncomfortably.

"I don't know," he practically mumbles. "Why?"

Ian just blinks at him.

"Because," he says plainly. "We're... I mean, we're together. Right?"

The trepidation in his voice is an almost physical presence in the air, and Mickey's throat goes dry. He swallows, but it doesn't really help. He just stares down at Ian, whose expression is suddenly one of anxious expectation, like he's terrified Mickey might say no. It takes Mickey's breath away.

He nods.

"Yeah," he says, then clears his throat to put some more certainty behind it. "Yeah. Together."

He doesn't sound hesitant, thankfully. It surprises him, but he's glad, and after a second or so of searching Mickey's expression for any kind of pretense, Ian smiles. He's visibly relieved, happy, and he grabs Mickey's hand where it rests against his chest.

"Sounds good," he says, his tone soft in a way that calms every single nerve in Mickey's body, as he turns his gaze to their interlocked hands. Ian sounds so sure, so content, and Mickey realizes that nothing has ever made him feel this certain about anything.

Ian looks back up, an almost playful look on his face now.

"So," he says. "Does that mean I get to promote you?"

Mickey frowns, confused.

"What?" he says. It seems to be his most used word with Ian lately, as dumb as it sounds.

"A promotion," Ian says, shifting a little where he lies. "Like, a change of title."

Mickey gives him a flat look, the one reserved for when he's tired of Ian's teasing.

"Like what?" he says, almost suspiciously, and Ian sighs. He flicks his gaze away, licks his lips.

"Well, _boyfriend_ has a nice ring to it," he says, intently watching a particular spot on Mickey's chest, and Mickey blinks a few times, stunned. He opens his mouth, then closes it, at a complete loss for words.

He has never in his life been called someone's _boyfriend_ before, not even back when he was with Amy in high school, and the fact that it's now coming from Ian is enough to make his brain temporarily freeze up. Ian notices, because he looks up at Mickey again.

"I mean," he says, seeing Mickey's reaction and scrambling to save the situation. "We're together, like _dating,_ and... But if you don't want to, that's totally okay."

"It's not that," Mickey hears himself say. He does the goldfish-thing with his mouth again, licks his lips, before adding in a rush, "I just haven't been a boyfriend before."

 _Or had one,_ he thinks, but he figures that goes without saying.

Ian smiles again, this time with his entire face, and he surprises Mickey by suddenly nuzzling up against his stomach and deeply inhaling through his nose. Mickey hopes he's wearing a reasonably clean shirt, but Ian doesn't seem to care. He just sighs contentedly, and when he looks back up at Mickey, his hair is falling over his eyes in an adorable way that makes Mickey want to gently push it back. He does, smoothes his hand across Ian's forehead and back over his hair, Ian closing his eyes for a moment and leaning into the touch. Mickey really, _really_ likes that, he decides.

Ian exhales and shifts a little in Mickey's lap, before propping himself up so he can plant a kiss below Mickey's ribcage, through his shirt. He moves up, kissing along his sternum and up to his collarbones, and by the time he reaches Mickey's throat, the kisses have started getting slower and longer. He takes his time, opening his mouth a bit as he kisses just above Mickey's pulse―which speeds up a bit―and up to just below his ear, along his jaw. Mickey can feel his skin prickling at the back of his neck, in a decidedly pleasant way, and when Ian finds his mouth, he hesitates for about a second before pressing his lips against it. It reduces Mickey to a pile of warm, melted goo in a matter of moments.

"Boyfriend," Ian whispers cheekily against his mouth. Mickey can feel him smile. "I like the sound of that."

Mickey hums in agreement, kissing Ian's lips lightly.

"Me too," he admits, trying not to smile himself. He's not used to feeling like this, all giddy and soft. It feels weird, unfamiliar and a little dangerous, but he likes it. It's worth it.

Ian adjusts his now awkward position and sits up properly, straddling Mickey's lap and settling with one leg on either side, resting against the couch. Mickey's hands hover awkwardly, before going to Ian's waist and slowly sliding down to his hips, which draws a nice, low groan from Ian's throat. The sound shoots down Mickey's spine like hot liquid, immediately coiling tightly in his gut, and when Ian kisses him, he can't help but close his eyes and firm his grip ever so slightly, pulling Ian's body just a little bit closer against his own.

It's borderline ridiculous how he gets hard in a matter of seconds.

He's not the only one, though; he can feel it as Ian starts grinding against him, and before long, they're practically eating each other's faces and moaning like they're in heat. It's fucking embarrassing.

"Wanna move?" Ian suggests between kisses, and Mickey hums.

"Where?" he asks. Ian huffs a small laugh.

"I was thinking the bedroom," he says. "More spacious, you know."

"Oh, _spacious_ , is it?"

"I only have your comfort in mind," Ian says cheekily, and Mickey smiles against his mouth.

"Well, in that case."

They remember to turn off the TV, but Mickey is pretty sure he wouldn't have noticed it, anyway; as they get up and stumble toward Ian's bedroom, his mind is rather occupied. By the time they step over the threshold, Ian ends up practically slamming him against the wall, and Mickey lets out a surprised, pleased grunt.

"You know," Ian murmurs, hands on Mickey's ass and kneading pleasantly, "we could just slow down, like we said."

"Do you wanna slow down?" Mickey asks, challenging in his tone and certain of Ian's response.

"Well, no," Ian says, already a little out of breath, letting out a meek moan as Mickey kisses his neck. "But you―"

"Ian," Mickey says, effectively cutting him off. Their eyes meet. "Stop it. I'm fine."

He feels a little ridiculous saying it, but he knows he has to, and Ian licks his lips.

"You sure?" he asks, and Mickey groans impatiently.

"We're not in fucking high school," he says, and Ian makes a small noise.

"It's still consent," he says, making Mickey pull back a bit. He gives Ian a bored, flat, slightly annoyed look.

"You've got my fucking consent," he says tightly, impatient and way too horny to think straight right now. "If you don't, I'll let you know."

He goes back to Ian's mouth, opening it with his tongue and tasting those amazing lips, but is distracted when Ian's soft moan of pleasure turns into an interruptive sound.

"Okay," he breathes between kisses. "'Cause there's something I kinda wanna try."

Mickey hums, keeps kissing him.

"And what's that?" he murmurs, simultaneously excited and terrified of what Ian might suggest. Ian shifts a bit awkwardly, and _god_ , Mickey has never been able to imagine Ian being _awkward_ in any kind of sexual context, the fucking Adonis that he is.

"I'd like to blow you," Ian says, and Mickey pulls back.

"What?" he says, his tone flat, and Ian's eyes trail over his body, so hungrily that it almost distracts him from what he just said.

"Well, I would say I wanna suck you off―" Ian says, out of breath, and Mickey cuts him off with a weird, dismissive sound at the back of his throat, "―but I figured that'd make you uncomfortable."

He was right, obviously, and the way he smirks a little as he sees Mickey's perfectly predictable reaction makes Mickey want to smack him in the head.

"I'm not―" Mickey starts awkwardly, gritting his teeth. "I'm not fucking _uncomfortable_ , okay? Just..." He clears his throat, nods. "Yeah."

Ian's knitted eyebrows ask the question before his mouth does.

"Yeah, what?" he says, and Mickey shrugs, blood rushing at the very thought of what Ian is actually offering to do.

"Yeah," he says, steadying his voice. "Yeah, you can."

Ian gets that smirk again, the fucker. He tugs Mickey closer.

"Is that a yes?" he says lasciviously in his ear, and Mickey feels his eyes drift closed as Ian places a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below his earlobe, nipping the skin with his teeth and smoothing it over with his tongue. Mickey would be embarrassed about the breathy, shaky moan it draws out of him, but he's too distracted to care right now.

"That's what I said," he breathes, sliding both hands up underneath Ian's t-shirt. "Now get this off."

Ian doesn't need telling twice. The fact that Mickey is even asking―more of making the demand, really―seems to be enough to rile him up. That much is evident from the way he groans as he plants a hard kiss on Mickey's mouth, before tugging at the back of his shirt and clumsily pulling it over his head. Mickey helps him along, impatient and fumbling, despite awkwardness temporarily forgotten, and although he has seen Ian shirtless hundreds of times, the sight of it is still nothing short of spectacular. Because Ian is shirtless _for him_ , this time. He's getting undressed to give Mickey more skin to touch and kiss and feel, and it makes Mickey's head spin.

Ian quickly decides to even out the playing field; as the kisses become deeper and more ravenous, like before, he pauses only to get Mickey's t-shirt over his head and tossed to the floor, hands quickly going to the hem of Mickey's sweatpants. It's not exactly the sexiest outfit, Mickey admits, but Ian's isn't much better, and he has made sure to take a page out of Ian's book and keep a stash of clothes here, these days. If nothing else, the sweats give easy access, and Mickey does his best not to look like an awkward teenager as he gets out of them. It hits him then that he's actually only wearing underwear right now, while Ian is shirtless and pressing his body against the wall with his own. He feels a surge of self-consciousness, but it's dampened a bit when he notices the way Ian honestly takes a step back and just looks at him, eyes roaming up and down his body like he's some kind of rare chocolate cake.

 _Fuck,_ Mickey does like that.

"Ey," he says anyway, snapping Ian's attention back up to his face. "Don't leave me hangin', here."

He only says it to ease his own tension, to fill the quiet space, but thankfully, Ian gets it. He huffs a small laugh, before taking off his own sweatpants and tossing them aside, a lot more smoothly than Mickey just did. Granted, Ian was clinging to him like a magnet while he did it, but still―Ian could look hot and smooth doing pretty much anything.

Speaking of which, _holy shit_ , Mickey still can't quite believe how fucking hot this guy actually is.

_And he's all mine._

Ian steps in closer again, puts his hands on Mickey's hips and pulls him away from the wall. Mickey follows, lets Ian steer him through the room while their lips keep meeting in short, hungry intervals, and before he knows it, he can feel the edge of a bed bump against the back of his legs. _Ian's bed._ He opens his eyes a bit, just enough to see the way Ian is looking at him as he prompts him to sit down. Mickey does, and Ian follows.

"You sure about this?" Ian asks, the sincerity in his voice almost masking the eagerness, and Mickey nearly rolls his eyes.

"I'm not the one doing anything," he says dryly, but he's pretty sure Ian can see right through it. Truth is, his heart is hammering in his chest, and he momentarily forgets that this isn't a new thing. He has been in this exact position before, after all, and he tries not to feel too nervous about it.

Ian smiles softly, settling on the floor between Mickey's legs, on his knees.

"Just checking," he says. He slides his hands up along Mickey's thighs, leaving a trail of heat in his wake, and Mickey swallows dryly. He's insanely hard already, but while Ian is no doubt fully aware of that, he keeps his eyes locked on Mickey's as he hooks his fingers under the hem of his boxers and pulls downward.

"You'd let me know, right?" he asks, his tone and expression completely genuine, and Mickey lifts his hips ever so slightly so that Ian can slowly get his underwear off. "If something's wrong?"

Mickey nods, swallows again. He keeps watching Ian.

"Yeah," he says, inhaling deeply when he feels his last piece of clothing slide down his legs and pool at his feet, his hands resting against the mattress on either side of him. Ian still doesn't look down, still keeps their gazes locked. It's intense, somehow. _Intimate._ It calms Mickey's nerves.

"Good," Ian says. For a split second, he looks a bit nervous too, but Mickey knows that must be his imagination. Ian doesn't get nervous, not like this.

When Ian finally looks down, the way he inhales is something Mickey finds himself committing to memory at once, because it's done with some kind of fascination and wonder Mickey never expected anyone―least of all Ian―to show while gazing at his dick. It feels weird, but the good kind of weird.

Ian straightens again where he stands on his knees, leans in and kisses Mickey on the mouth. He does it softly at first, warmly, then ramps it up a bit, encouraging Mickey to really lean into it. He closes his eyes, Ian's hands smoothing over his thighs.

Ian makes sure the kiss is slow and deep by the time he actually touches Mickey properly. It still makes Mickey nearly flinch, but it does help take the edge off, and he finds himself breathing heavily into Ian's mouth as those fingers slowly start stroking him, lightly, just to get him comfortable―it's definitely working. Mickey puts a hand by Ian's face to keep him close, and Ian sighs against his lips as his hand starts working Mickey over with a more deliberate kind of pressure. It feels amazing, so much so that when Ian slowly pulls away from his mouth, Mickey doesn't even open his eyes. He just lets his hand drop back to the mattress at his side, keeps his eyes closed while parting his lips in heavy, blissful breaths, and when he finally feels it, he gasps.

_Oh, god. Oh, fuck, fuck._

Mickey opens his eyes, just barely, just enough to look down and see Ian kneeling between his legs, with Mickey's cock in his mouth. It's something Mickey is certain will be burned into his mind for the rest of his life, something he never thought he'd actually see, and when he sees the way Ian pulls off and then wraps his lips around the head, his breath catches in his throat. He bites down on his lip, while Ian just keeps going, slowly, inch by inch.

Mickey's mind is about to explode.

Ian pulls off again, licks gently at the head while stroking slowly at the base, and Mickey groans, grabbing the covers tightly between his fingers. He breathes slowly, deeply, his heart pounding in his chest, and he keeps his eyes on Ian as he gives Mickey every ounce of his attention. Mickey feels weird admitting it, but it's quite a thing to watch. The way Ian unabashedly uses his mouth to pull Mickey apart is nothing short of spectacular, and when he suddenly, without warning, slides almost all the way down to the base, Mickey lets out a loud, surprised moan. He can't help it; he's pretty sure that he has never felt anything like this before.

The reaction eggs Ian on, clearly, because he settles in more comfortably and pulls back up, bobbing his head a few times and hollowing his cheeks with suction that feels just fantastic, and within moments, he has managed to put any other blowjob Mickey has had to shame. Mickey closes his eyes again, moves his hand up to rest against Ian's hair, unsure what to do. He doesn't grab, doesn't tug, just lets it sit there, carding gently with his fingers. He can already feel his orgasm building, can feel the anticipation spiking, the thought of coming from Ian's mouth just―

"Wait," Mickey says, too breathless to really speak properly. He shifts a little in his seat to get the message across, applies the slightest pressure as he tugs on Ian's hair. "Wait."

Ian does. He pulls off immediately, and looks up at Mickey with lust-blown eyes and a look of sheer arousal and confusion. Mickey can see a trace of concern there, as well.

"What?" Ian asks, slightly out of breath, and Mickey swallows hard. He lets go of Ian's hair and leans back with both palms pressed against the bed. He shakes his head.

"Nothing," he says, closing his eyes for a second. "Nothing, I just―" He sighs. "It's just too fuckin' weird."

He notices Ian pull away further, as though to give him some space, and he opens his eyes. Ian's hands are on his thighs, gently smoothing over his skin in a gesture that's soothing, more than anything. He licks his lips.

"What does that mean?" Ian asks. He sounds almost hurt, somehow, a little concerned.

"No," Mickey says, trying to fix the misunderstanding. "No, it's not you. I mean, yeah, it is you, I just―" This time his sigh comes out more frustrated. "It's good. Really, _really_ good. It's just a bit much. More than I thought it'd be."

Ian blinks, as though trying to interpret Mickey's words. He doesn't look hurt anymore.

"You can come, if you want," he says. There's a bit of hesitation in his voice, like he isn't quite sure if that's what Mickey's referring to. "I don't mind. I can take it, it's fine."

Mickey has no idea how to respond to that. Of course Ian's first reaction would be to reassure his best friend―well, _boyfriend_ now, holy shit―that he can come in his mouth, if he wants to. _Shit_ , what a sweet, lovable idiot.

"That's not it," Mickey says, shaking his head. Ian considers this, exhales.

"You wanna stop?" he asks, and Mickey shakes his head again. Ian nods. "Okay. Just no mouth, then?"

Another headshake from Mickey.

"At least not for the... finale," he says dumbly. "Not yet."

He's not sure why he feels weird about it, but he is eternally grateful that Ian knows him well enough to understand what it is he's trying to say. Like Ian always understands.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Ian's mouth, and he nods. He stands up on his knees, so that his face is almost level with Mickey's. His hands are still soothingly touching Mickey's thighs.

"Got it," he says. His eyes trail down over Mickey's body, down to his cock which is still hard, and then back up to Mickey's face. "Some other time. But there's other stuff we can do. If you want."

Mickey swallows, Ian's words making him shiver all over again. He nods, and Ian slowly gets up from the floor, keeping Mickey's gaze locked with his own. He smoothes his fingers up along Mickey's bare arms as he does, not ceasing to touch him for even a moment.

"Lie back?" Ian says, turning it into a question rather than a request or command, and Mickey complies. He shuffles back on the bed and lies down, and Ian follows, hovering over him and placing one arm on either side of his head to support his own weight. The two of them just look at each other for a few moments, and Mickey vaguely wonders what he's supposed to do with his hands, resting them at his sides against the covers.

When Ian leans down and kisses him, he forges all about that. Ian's mouth is warm and persuasive, the kiss surprisingly soft, and Mickey doesn't even hesitate before reciprocating. His hand moves on its own as it places itself behind Ian's neck, pulling him closer to as to deepen the kiss, and Ian moans softly against his mouth. Mickey can feel Ian letting his own hand trail down along his body, finding its way to Mickey's dick, and just like that, the fire is back.

Mickey's free arm wraps around Ian's torso, his other hand firmly gripping his hair, and Ian makes a small sound of surprise at the sudden shift in confidence. He's enjoying it, though, panting into Mickey's mouth as he alternates between massaging his balls and stroking his cock, all of which―after the amazing attention it just received―is just about all Mickey can handle. He grinds against the pressure of Ian's hand, can feel the slick slide of precome combined with the still-wet traces of Ian's tongue, and he digs his fingertips into Ian's back, moans loudly at the downright exquisite sensation. He should be embarrassed about the noise he's making, but fuck it.

Ian makes a hungry, desperate sound.

"Mickey," he breathes, panting against Mickey's skin, stroking faster and clearly relishing the way Mickey arches against him. He kisses him, hard. "God, Mick, you're so fucking hot right now."

The words catch Mickey completely off-guard, shocking and so delicious all at once, and it's enough to make him come like a fucking teenager. He grips Ian's hair tightly enough to make him emit a soft, pained grunt, kissing him hard and deep as he feels that sweet, white-hot release, Ian's hand on him and stroking languidly throughout.

He's too blissed-out, ears ringing, to notice when Ian clambers off of him and falls down on his back beside him instead, and only catches on when he feels the mattress shift. He opens his eyes, takes in the shape of Ian―and what a shape it is―only to realize something. It occurs to Mickey then that while he just had a mind-blowing orgasm that liquefied his bones, Ian is still hard, not to mention still _not_ naked, and he doesn't really like that. He especially doesn't like it when Ian sits up in the bed, as though making a move to leave.

"Where're you going?" Mickey musters, still breathing heavily, and Ian turns to him.

"Oh," he says. "Yeah, I didn't―" He gestures at his still very present boner. "Just gonna go take care of it."

He shifts toward the bed's edge, but Mickey stops him.

"Hang on," Mickey says, grabbing his wrist. Ian turns to him, an unreadable expression on his face. Mickey licks his lips. "You don't have to. Go, I mean."

Ian blinks, gaze flicking to the spot where he was just lying.

"You want me to―?" he asks, nodding at the spot, and Mickey swallows. He feels weirdly nervous, _again._

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "I wanna see it."

He can't really believe he just said that out loud, but the look on Ian's face makes it worth it, because he looks like Mickey just told him Christmas came early. He nods.

"Yeah," he says, a little clumsy in his eagerness as he lies down on his back again. He glances at Mickey, as though asking for permission, and ends up trying to add a joking air to the situation. "I mean, it's only fair, right?"

Mickey raises his eyebrows, and Ian clears his throat, turning his attention up to the ceiling.

"Right," he says, an air of self-consciousness about him now, and Mickey makes the bold decision to shuffle a little closer and give him a kiss. It's just a light one, but it's the reassurance Ian needs, and Mickey lies back on his side, waiting to enjoy the show.

Ian does have a bit of an exhibitionist streak, that much Mickey knows. It's something he has learned, indirectly and bit by bit, over the years, and he enjoys the way Ian goes about this. Instead of getting right to it, he settles more comfortably on the bed, slides his hand down along his abdomen and palms at the hard bulge in his boxers. He closes his eyes, slips his hand beneath the hem and tugs the boxers down, and as he frees his cock and slowly wraps his fingers around it, Mickey can't look away. He has never actually seen that part of Ian before, just like Ian hadn't seen his until a few minutes ago, and the way Ian starts stroking himself so agonizingly slow is amazing to watch. He does it so deliberately, moaning softly as he arches against his own hand―he's so damn _hard―_ eyes closed, and Mickey realizes what he's doing; he's putting on a show. For Mickey.

Despite his own teasing, however, it's clear that Ian doesn't really have the patience for it right now. He picks up the pace, thrusting up into his hand and using his other one to dig his fingers into the sheets. It's so fucking _hot,_ and Mickey is certain he could come again in a second if he weren't still recovering. As it is, he can't stop watching Ian as he moves, parting his lips in one pleased groan after another, pleasuring himself right in front of Mickey like it's all he has ever wanted to do. Mickey pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth.

Ian seems a tad surprised when Mickey touches him, but makes no objection when his hand trails across his chest. Quite the contrary. It's innocent enough, just Mickey appreciating the chiseled planes of his body, really, but it definitely has an effect on Ian, who pushes his head back into the pillow as he starts stroking faster, grunting and groaning in such a perfect way. Mickey moves his hand further down, can tell from Ian's suddenly erratic breathing that he's probably close, and he covers Ian's busy hand with his own. He doesn't grip tightly, doesn't help Ian along―he just lets his hand rest there, and the fact that just that pushes Ian over the edge is immensely satisfying.

Ian comes with a loud moan, the look on his face one of the best things Mickey has ever seen, and it hits him that this is just as satisfying as what Ian just did for him. Watching him fall apart like that, because of Mickey, is so much more amazing than he ever expected.

Mickey pulls his hand away as Ian does, lies back down against the sheets. Ian's chest is heaving, a thin sheen of sweat covering his skin. He swallows dryly.

"I feel kinda gross," he blurts after a few moments, sounding completely exhausted. He realizes what he said then, and revises. "I mean, awesome, fantastic. But kinda gross."

Mickey grunts.

"And I want a smoke," he says, earning a frown from Ian.

"How does that help me?" Ian asks, and Mickey shrugs where he lies.

"Doesn't," he says. "I thought we were just stating facts."

Ian shoves him in the shoulder, and Mickey chuckles, while Ian immediately counters the soft violence by wrapping his arm around Mickey and urging him to lie down with his head against his chest. Mickey complies, trying to get his mind around the fact that he is currently lying in Ian's bed, with Ian, both of them naked, post-orgasmic, covered in come, and that this was entirely on purpose. This is a thing that has happened, and it feels pretty damn good.

Ian exhales heavily, trying to even out his breathing.

"Why didn't we do this from the start?" he says lightly. "We could've had three years of this, and―"

He makes a shrugging gesture with his hands, and Mickey sighs.

"Yeah," he says, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "I ain't complaining, though."

He feels Ian shift beneath him, and turns his head to find Ian's eyes on him. Ian smiles.

"Me neither," he says, tugging Mickey closer as he presses a kiss to his messed-up hair. "No way."

Mickey just hums in reply, eyes drifting shut with sleepy contentment, as he feels more at home than he has in years.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Wouldn't dream of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I feel like this chapter seems a bit rushed, if so, my apologies. Also, I know I promised more plot, but it got too long, so some of that plot will show up in the next chapter instead. For now, you'll have to get by with smut.)
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	14. You're Something Beautiful, A Contradiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> You're all so lovely. Even though I don't reply to the comments, please know that I read and re-read every single one, and they make me so happy and so motivated and I love you for it. Thank you.
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfGhlVcrc8U))

Ian is terribly tempted to fall asleep. As he watches Mickey drift off, he smiles, combing through that black, messed-up hair with his fingers. Mickey's going to be pissed when he sees what his hair looks like. He would never admit it, but he can pretty vain when it comes to that, and it's something Ian never ceases to find amusing.

He can't believe what just happened. Going down on Mickey, making him moan like that, the way Mickey held him so tightly as Ian made him come. Mickey touching him so gently as he came, himself. Ian has never felt so close to Mickey before, not like that, probably hasn't felt that close to _anyone_ , and his heart could just burst with happiness.

 _God_ , he loves him so much. He so desperately loves this beautiful, angry, soft-hearted, grumpy young man, and he leans down just enough to inhale the scent of his skin, right by his temple. He's so gorgeous.

However, while Ian could just stare for hours at Mickey lying naked with his head against his chest, he knows they could both use some cleaning up.

"Hey," he says softly, nudging his boyfriend. "Don't fall asleep on me."

Mickey stirs, emits a small, petulant groan.

"Not sleeping," he murmurs, and Ian smiles.

"Of course not," he says. "But my arm's going numb, and we're both starting to smell funky."

Mickey groans again, a little louder this time.

"Speak for yourself," he says, and Ian gives him a slightly rougher nudge. Mickey smiles, eyes still closed, and it's only after another few seconds and a deep inhale, that he moves. He shifts so that he's no longer lying on Ian's chest and arm.

"A shower might be in order," Ian says, and Mickey hums.

"Probably," he agrees, opening his eyes.

Ian glances at him, puts on a suggestive smile.

"Feel like joining me?" he says, with a tone to match his expression, but to his surprise, Mickey doesn't respond the way he wants him to.

"No," he just says, and Ian pulls back.

"What?" he says. "Why?"

Mickey turns to him, eyebrows pointedly raised.

"'Cause if we both go in there," he says, "you know we ain't coming back out again for a while."

Ian hates to admit he has a point, although staying in there for a while was kind of what he was hoping for.

"So?" he says.

"So," Mickey replies, "some of us gotta head back home soon."

Ian groans tiredly.

"Since when are you the sensible one?" he asks dryly, and Mickey scoffs.

"I've always been the sensible one," he says, and Ian lets out a noise of disbelief.

"Really?" he says flatly. "Like when you kicked that guy's ass for catcalling Mandy?"

"Ey, that was pretty fuckin' sensible," Mickey protests, but Ian continues.

"Or when your ass got grabbed and you got thrown out of the bar for starting a fight over it?" Ian says, and Mickey makes a grumbling sound. "Or like that time when―"

"Alright, you've made your fucking point," Mickey interrupts. "Jesus."

He turns to look at Ian, who just grins at him, before leaning in and giving him a kiss. He has decided, in the past week, that sleepy Mickey is his third favorite when it comes to kissing. The other two are horny Mickey, and happy Mickey, in no particular order.

Ian secretly hopes that his kisses might sway Mickey to disregard his own self-discipline and actually join him in the shower, but no such luck. When they pull apart, Mickey's eyebrows go up.

"You're still going in there by yourself," he says, and Ian drops his head and groans into Mickey's shoulder. He looks up again, soon enough.

"Fuck you," he says, with the softness of a loving compliment, and Mickey hums in reply. He presses their lips together, quick and chaste.

"Go," he says, and Ian obliges.

Mickey can be very efficient when he wants to be; as soon as Ian exits the shower, he slips right in, dodging Ian's clever attempts at trying to ensnare him in some heavy makeout session. By the time Ian has fixed up the bed a bit and put some clothes on, he's in the kitchen getting some cereal, TV on in the background. He feels incredibly content, all soft and nice, so when the doorbell rings, it stuns him a bit.

He puts his cereal down―he was pretty much done with it, anyway―and heads into the hall. He opens the front door, only to pull back a little in surprise.

"Hey," the newcomer says, and Ian blinks.

"Hey, Carl," he says, eyeing his little brother up and down. He can't help but notice the actual jacket he's wearing, and he vaguely wonders if fall has managed to arrive in the time he and Mickey have been all wrapped up in each other lately. "What are you doing here?"

Carl raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah, good to see you, too," he says dryly. "You gonna let me in, or what?"

Ian hesitates for a second or so, before remembering that Mickey being at his apartment, even borrowing his shower, isn't something out of the ordinary. He steps away from the door, allowing Carl to enter and close it behind him. At the same time, Ian hears the bathroom door open, and he freaks out for about a split second, before seeing, out of the corner of his eye, that Mickey is actually wearing clothes. He makes his way through the living room, and Carl spots him.

"Hey, Mick," he says, and while Mickey looks a tad surprised at his sudden presence, he gives him an upwards nod of greeting as he heads into the kitchen. Ian can barely hide his smile. It somehow amuses him that, aside from himself and Mickey's siblings, Carl is the only one who can get away with addressing Mickey as Mick, without being hit by a death glare. Ian's not sure how it happened, but within the first twenty minutes or so of meeting each other, his brother and Mickey developed some kind of rapport that very rarely expresses itself in words.

Ian hangs back while Carl puts up his jacket and kicks off his shoes, and he hears Mickey shuffle around in the kitchen. He looks over his shoulder, and sees Mickey come up and stand next to him, a bowl of cereal in his hands. Their gazes lock for about a second, as if to share their relief at Carl's impeccable timing; had he arrived earlier, he probably would have just let himself in, and that would have been a whole new level of awkward.

Carl steps into the apartment, passes over Ian and Mickey with his eyes, before seemingly noticing something and looking around. He frowns, inhales.

"Smells like sex in here," he says bluntly, before turning back to his brother. "You guys haven't been fucking, have you?"

It's impossible to really tell if the question is a serious one or not, but Mickey thankfully keeps it together, while Ian straightens a little where he stands. Either way, there's nothing judgmental, or even teasing about Carl's tone, which helps.

"No, Carl," Ian says slowly, only half-lying, caught off-guard, but choosing to mask it as a reaction to his little brother's question just being weird. "We haven't."

Carl keeps his eyes on him, then flicks them to Mickey, who just shrugs, keeping a poker face that only Ian ever manages to see through. Carl seems to give up then, and he looks away.

"Whatever," he says. "Listen, I need someplace to crash for a few days."

Ian pulls back.

"Okay," he says. "Why?"

Carl shrugs, glancing around.

"Stuff," he says vaguely. "Circumstances."

"Circumstances?" Ian repeats flatly, and Carl turns to him. He rolls his eyes, giving up.

"Maggie kicked me out," he says.

Ian's eyebrows go up.

"Wait, what?" he says. "Why?"

"I kinda cheated on her," Carl admits sheepishly, and while Ian knows he tends to pretend he doesn't care about shit like that, he can tell that Carl might actually feel a bit bad about it this time.

"With who?" Ian asks, sounding more like a mom at this point, and Carl hunches his shoulders as he inhales, hands in his pockets, as though trying to go for overly casual.

"Zack," he says, barely audibly, and Mickey's eyebrows go up. He glances at Ian, who glances back, completely dumbstruck.

"Wait," Ian says, gesturing with his hands. "Go back. You're saying you hooked up with your girlfriend's _brother_?"

Carl doesn't immediately reply, and when he does, it's just with a shrug, prompting an exasperated sigh from Ian.

"It's not like it's a big deal," Carl says, throwing his hands up. " _Girlfriend_ is a strong word, and I wasn't really _living_ with her anyway, I was just staying there for a bit. And Zack came onto me."

"What, so nothing happened?"

"Oh, it happened," Carl says, eyebrows raised. "I'm just sayin' I didn't start it."

Ian groans, covering his face with his hands.

"Oh my god," he mutters, the words muffled.

"Yeah," Carl says, before letting out a huff of laughter. "Looks like your gay gene rubbed off on me, or some shit. I mean, I still like pussy, I just appreciate dick too, these days. Who knew. Anyway, can I crash?"

Ian looks up at the eighteen-year-old's expectant expression, and he sighs, throwing his hands up.

"Yeah, sure," he says. "Why not."

"Cool," Carl says with a nod. "I'mma use your crapper."

He unceremoniously heads to the bathroom and closes the door behind him, leaving Ian to just stand there, momentarily frozen. He reanimates when Mickey nudges him.

"You okay there?" Mickey asks, and Ian turns to him.

"Yeah," Ian says. "Yeah, just... That came out of nowhere."

Mickey makes a sound of agreement.

"Yeah," he says, finishing off his cereal. "Probably best, though."

He heads back into the kitchen, and Ian looks after him.

"Why?" he asks, hopefully not sounding too needy, and Mickey sighs patiently.

"I gotta go, remember?" he says, giving Ian's mouth a peck as he passes by him again. "This is my cue."

Ian reluctantly agrees, and before Carl is even back, Mickey has gathered his stuff, changed, and moved to the hall, where he's saying goodbye to Ian.

"Hey," he says softly, a little hesitantly. He glances in the general direction of the bathroom, but the odds of Carl hearing anything are miniscule―he was never good at sharing a bathroom, so he'll probably be in there for a while longer. "I was thinking, maybe we could talk to Mandy tomorrow?"

He tilts his head.

"We?" Ian asks dumbly, and Mickey cocks his head, thumbs at his bottom lip.

"Yeah," he says. "Don't think I could do it by myself, at this point."

He waits for Ian to catch on, and when Ian does, his eyebrows rise.

"Oh," he says. "You mean like, _talk_ to her?"

Mickey gives him a flat look.

"Yeah," he says. "Tell her, or whatever."

Ian inhales deeply, suddenly weirdly ecstatic.

"Really?" he says, making sure to keep his voice down and his tone even. At least he succeeds at the first part. "I mean, you sure?"

"Well, like you said," Mickey says. "She knows something's up, and she probably should know. Besides, if we don't tell her she might actually kill me. And she'll get creative, like arsenic cake, or assassins, or some shit. Probably best to just..."

He makes a definitive gesture with his hands, and Ian nods.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, okay." He smiles teasingly. "Sounds real formal, you know. Like I'm asking for your hand, or something―"

"Alright, fuck off, man," Mickey says, taking a step back, but there's no bite in his voice at all. Ian's smile widens.

"Sorry," he says. He reaches out and takes Mickey's hand, meeting no resistance whatsoever. "We'll tell her tomorrow. You got any particular time and place in mind?"

He says it half-seriously, and Mickey gives him a bored look.

"I'll call you, okay?" he replies, and Ian nods.

"Sure." He leans out into the living room to make sure the bathroom door is still closed and that his little brother is nowhere to be seen, before turning back and giving Mickey a kiss. They can't really indulge right now, but he makes it count, catching Mickey's bottom lip between his own and drawing a low, soft groan from Mickey's throat.

"You should really go," Ian says when they pull apart. "Before I get carried away."

Mickey grunts.

"Have fun without me," he says, pecking Ian's lips, and Ian's smiles.

"I'll try."

It's cheesy as fuck, but they both have a silent understanding that it's fine as long as no one else is around, and Mickey gives Ian one last kiss before heading out the door. Ian closes it behind him, and heads back into the living room just in time to see Carl exit the bathroom. 

Carl looks around.

"Mickey leave?" he asks, and Ian nods.

"Yeah," he says. "So we can spend some quality time together."

Carl snorts, Ian smiling in reply.

"Whatever," Carl says, plopping down on the couch and picking up the TV remote. He doesn't change the channel, just holds the remote in his hand, and Ian scratches the back of his neck before sitting down beside him. Carl glances at him, but that's about it.

"So," Ian says after a while, and his brother clearly immediately picks up on his tone. That much is obvious from the side-eye he throws Ian's way. "Zack."

"What about him?" Carl says, and Ian shrugs.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Carl frowns, turns to Ian and looks at him like it's the dumbest thing he has ever heard.

"Why the fuck would I wanna talk about it?" he says. There's no bite in his tone, nothing annoyed. He just sounds genuinely confused.

"Well, I don't know," Ian says. "Did you― I mean, was it―?"

"It's not like I haven't hooked up with a dude before," Carl cuts him off flatly. It honestly takes Ian by surprise.

"It isn't?" he asks, hiding said surprise.

"No," Carl says. "Done it a couple of times. Never all the way, but lots of other stuff. It's pretty sweet."

Ian doesn't immediately reply.

"So," he says slowly, as Carl turns back to the TV. "Does that make you...?"

"Bi, I guess," Carl says with a shrug. "Haven't really thought about it. Just sorta happened."

He sinks further down in his seat to comfortably put his feet up on the coffee table. Ian nods, decides to drop the subject for now.

"Can I ask why you're crashing here, by the way?" he says. "I mean, why not at Lip's, or back home?"

Carl scoffs.

"You kidding?" he says. "Lip's girlfriend fucking hates me, and Fi's got enough on her plate. Debbie's boyfriend is practically living at our house, and Jimmy won't leave. I need my space, man."

Ian nods slowly, chews his bottom lip.

"You could always just get your own place," he says.

"Yeah, but then I'd have to get my shit together," Carl says flippantly. "Not ready for that, yet."

Ian smacks the back of his head lightly, earning a grunt of annoyance in return.

"If I can get my shit together," he says. "I'm pretty sure you can, too."

"Whatever," Carl says petulantly, rubbing the back of his head. Ian knows he can get self-conscious about this stuff, even if he doesn't say it; Lip was always the genius, and Ian took up a lot of the family's attention for a couple of years, leaving Carl with merely his childhood brand of troublemaker. No one ever really encouraged Carl the same way, even though he has always been just as smart and resourceful and caring as the rest of them.

Lip has always been book-smart, Ian thinks, smart on paper and a little pretentious, bitching about how unfair it is whenever someone points it out, yet with most things handed to him as far as academics and work are concerned. Carl has always been passed over, never quite shone as brightly as his older brother. It's a pity, in Ian's opinion, since he's done better than most of them, considering. Hell, he even graduated high school, albeit a little slower than most.

"Your life is boring, anyway," Carl says, and Ian bristles.

"What does that mean?" he asks.

"You got your job," Carl says, "your apartment, all stable and shit. And Mick's practically your boyfriend."

Ian nearly jumps.

"What?" he blurts, and Carl gives him a look.

"He's here all the time," he says. "You're at his place all the time. You talk about him all the time. You do everything together. Jesus Christ, just fuck and get it over with."

Carl turns back to the TV, clearly totally oblivious as to how spot-on he just was, and Ian can practically feel his body vibrating with the urge to just tell him that _yes, we're boyfriends and we do stuff together, and Mickey is my boyfriend, because I'm his boyfriend. Boyfriends._ He presses his lips together, pretty sure that he'd just yell those things like an idiot if he so much as opens his mouth right now.

Instead, he just hums, and keeps his eyes on the TV as he and Carl slip into a comfortable, drawn-out silence.

 

* * *

 

"We've got an hour," Mickey says, his breath getting heavier as Ian kisses him. They decided to meet with Mandy at Mickey's place, given that Carl has temporarily invaded Ian's, and they're killing some time until then. Ian isn't quite sure how they ended up in the shower (making up for the sore lack of it yesterday, perhaps), but here they are, and he really isn't about to complain. If nothing else, it's time-efficient, seeing as how what their activities were turning into would have warranted a shower afterwards, anyway.

Their trajectory hasn't exactly changed since they stepped under the warm spray of water that's currently reducing Ian to a hungry, hot mess. Quite the opposite―the combination of it and Mickey's naked, wet body under his hands is driving him slightly insane.

Ian is torn between kissing and touching Mickey everywhere, and just taking a step back to look at him. Because Mickey is fucking hot, and Ian is still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he can basically indulge in that whenever the hell he wants. He runs his hands up and down Mickey's hard stomach, his chest, pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth and swallowing down the groan that spills from Mickey's mouth. Mickey's fingers spread across his back, tracing the hard planes and moving up along his neck to pull through his soaking wet hair, pushing his tongue into his mouth and sighing at the taste.

Ian moves down to Mickey's ass, grabs it and kneads it with his hands, before he decides that he wants to enjoy the view, as well. Without a word, he turns Mickey around and pushes him lightly forward, enough to make him put his hands against the tiled wall for support, and the way Mickey just _does it_ is so much hotter than it should be. Ian kisses his neck, down to his spine, hands sliding to his hips as he moves in a little bit closer, and _shit_ what a sight it is. It's still somehow surreal; Ian still can't believe that after all this time, he has Mickey here, like this, hungry and hot and everything Ian could ask for, and he moves in just a bit closer.

Ian vaguely notices how his cock nudges against Mickey's ass, and he absent-mindedly adjusts it, letting it press against the cleft comfortably, and that's when he hears it. A moan, soft and a little stunned, but it's there, and Ian hesitates for a moment.

He's a little surprised, he must admit. Not that he has had any idea of what Mickey's preferences might be, but this is a pretty good hint. That moan is unmistakable, and he presses closer again, hands still firm on Mickey's hips. There's that moan again, a little startled, a lot pleased, and Ian bites his lip. _Fuck_ , that's hot.

He gauges Mickey's reaction, before again pressing hard and slow against his ass, and this time, Mickey lets out a heavy, pleased sigh. It's the kind of reaction Ian is looking for, and he pulls his hands back, uses them to part Mickey's ass cheeks just a little, just enough to let his cock slide in between them and settle there, and the way Mickey exhales sharply and curses under his breath is amazing. Ian moves them both closer against the wall, so that Mickey can lean against it with his elbows instead, for better support.

"You good?" Ian asks, the words little more than a breath just by Mickey's ear, and Mickey licks his lips, eyes closed. He nods.

Ian takes the permission eagerly, but stays calm and in control as he slowly, so slowly, starts moving. The low, drawn-out moan it lures from his throat is a sound of utter bliss, and he closes his eyes as he smoothes his hand up along Mickey's wet chest, slowly moving his hips. His cock slides almost effortlessly between Mickey's ass cheeks, and he sighs at how good it feels. It's actually one of the least sexual things he has ever done in this kind of context, but for once, he doesn't want to expedite things. Granted, the amount of times he has thought about fucking Mickey is staggering, especially lately, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want it, but any thought of that is just temporarily gone. Right now, this is all he wants, this slow, tentative teasing, Mickey pushing back against him and letting out a stuttering moan as Ian places an open-mouthed kiss at the top of his spine. He wants the closeness, the way Mickey's hair smells when wet, the way his skin feels covered in tiny droplets of water, the way his heavy breathing sounds in the confines of this shower.

Mickey grabs blindly behind him, finds the back of Ian's neck and grips it firmly, his other arm leaning against the wall as Ian keeps slowly thrusting against him. He picks up the pace just a little, and _fuck,_ it feels good, so slick and wet, Mickey now panting and breathing in a different way than he has done before. It's still good, still heavy with lust and pleasure and excitement, but there's a certain edge to it this time, almost desperate, and Ian finds it quite inspiring. Mickey is definitely enjoying this.

He presses up closer against Mickey's back, bare skin sliding easily with the rush of hot water, and he finds Mickey's shoulder with his mouth, tasting his skin and marking it with his teeth. Mickey's responsive groan is so sweet, and Ian never wants to stop hearing it. He wants Mickey to feel good, always. He wants to _make_ him feel good.

Mickey is hard when Ian takes him in his hand, so hard, and the way his breath hitches when Ian starts stroking him is exquisite. Ian moves his hips a little faster, a little rougher, grunts softly as the friction builds. Even without any penetration, this feels fucking fantastic, and the muscles in Mickey's back are taut as he runs his fingers down along them.

"Fuck," Mickey breathes, tilting his head back and allowing Ian to mouth at his exposed throat. "Ian."

Ian stutters. He has never heard Mickey say his name like that before, so desperately.

"Ian," Mickey repeats, tightening his grip on the back of Ian's neck. "Fuck, just like that."

_Oh, god. Fuck._

Ian presses harder against him, groaning pathetically as he keeps moving his hips, keeps stroking Mickey and kissing his neck. _God,_ he's so close, so fucking close. It's not going to take much more to make him come.

A strangled moan rips from Mickey's throat, and Ian opens his eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of his perfectly wrecked expression, water running down his face and drops falling from his soft, parted lips.

_Something like that._

Ian uses his free hand to angle Mickey's face awkwardly toward his own, catching his lips in a sloppy, wet kiss as he comes. He can feel Mickey's orgasm, can feel it through his fingertips, and he keeps thrusting erratically until he follows right behind, holding Mickey's body close against him to really feel it. Their breaths mingle with the rushing sound of water, and as the sensation ebbs out, Ian is surprised he's even still standing, given how wobbly his legs suddenly feel.

How is it even possible that every time he's with Mickey like this, it's even better than not only the time before, but any other time Ian has done something like this with anyone?

Ian untangles himself from Mickey's body and takes a step back, so that he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. Mickey turns around where he stands, straightens, closing his eyes for a second and seemingly trying to calm down.

"You okay?" Ian asks, still panting. He's feeling a little light-headed himself, an unfortunate consequence of essentially hyperventilating in a hot shower. Mickey nods, leaning back against the wall. He breathes deeply, before he looks down and scrunches up his face in a frown.

"Did you just come on me?" he asks, out of breath, as he looks up and meets Ian's eye.

Ian blinks, surprised by the accusation. He doesn't need to see for himself to know that he most likely probably did come on Mickey's leg, though.

"Did you just come on my wall?" he retorts breathlessly, gesturing at said wall, where the traces of their activities are slowly being washed away. Mickey pulls back, eyebrows raised in a _so that's how it is?_ kind of expression, and Ian exhales. "Fine," he says, a little sheepishly. "Sorry."

Mickey seems to consider that for about a second, before licking his lips as he breaks into a sated, suggestive smile.

"Don't be," he says, moving in closer and putting his hands on Ian's hips. "S'kinda hot."

The words surprise Ian, mostly because Mickey says them so unabashedly, with eye-contact and everything. The confidence is incredibly attractive, but of course, it shouldn't be surprising; Mickey is cocky about most things, and Ian should have known that it was only a matter of time before sexual stuff with Ian became one of those things.

"Yeah?" Ian says, smiling as he puts his arms around Mickey's neck. He loves how comfortable this all feels, so familiar and new, all at the same time.

Mickey hums, leaning up a bit so that Ian will take the hint and kiss him.

"I mean," he says lightly, "don't make it a habit, or anything. It's a bitch to clean up."

Ian raises his eyebrows.

"Oh, really?" he says, and Mickey nods. "But in the shower's fine?"

"Yes."

Ian cocks his head, smiling as he gives his boyfriend another kiss.

"I can live with that."

 

Ian feels weirdly nervous as Mandy sits on the couch, waiting for him to say something. He's standing with Mickey at his side, and he realizes how this all feels so much bigger and more formal and serious than it should. Mandy clearly agrees.

"Okay, you're starting to freak me out," she says. "What the fuck's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Ian says. It seems that he's the one who has ended up with the responsibility of actually talking. So much for _we._

"Then what?" Mandy says, a little impatiently. "What's this about?"

Ian swallows, glances at Mickey, who says nothing. He's just standing there with his arms folded across his chest, and Ian takes a breath.

"What?" Mandy says, huffing a small laugh this time, of both amusement and frustration. "What is it? What, are you fucking, or something?"

Ian wonders how, of all the theories and possibilities, she could have possibly guessed to go with that one. As it is, he's too stunned to immediately reply, and he can sense Mickey going tense beside him. It doesn't take Mandy longer than a second or two to put it together, and she flicks her gaze back and forth between her brother and her friend, before her blue eyes widen in some kind of shocked comprehension.

"Oh, god," she says. "Oh, god. You're fucking, aren't you?"

_And there it is._

"Well," Ian starts, and Mandy puts her face in her hands.

"Oh my fucking god," she says, a little louder this time. "I can't believe this. You're fucking."

"We're not just―" Ian halfheartedly tries to interrupt, but Mandy isn't having any of it.

"Then what?" she says, looking up. "What the fuck is happening, here?"

"Well, we're..." Ian starts, glancing at Mickey, as though to confirm. He turns back to Mandy. "We're dating."

This seems to affect Mandy a little more than the idea of them fucking, and she gets a strange, confused expression.

"What do you mean, _dating_?" she asks. Ian shrugs.

"Dating," he says.

"What, so you're like boyfriends now?" The tone of Mandy's voice speaks loudly of just how foreign of an idea that is to her, but Ian and Mickey both take it in stride. Neither of them replies, but Mandy clearly gets the silent confirmation. She blinks. "Wait, so... You mean you just hang out like boyfriends? That's what this is about?"

"Yeah," Ian says, so hesitantly it almost becomes a question, and Mandy throws her hands up.

"How is that any different from what you've been doing, for the past three years?" she exclaims, and elaborates when she sees the looks on their faces. "Oh, come on. You're basically in a relationship already, all you're missing is the sex." She narrows her eyes. "Which brings me back to the fucking."

Ian glances at Mickey, can't help himself, and he finds Mickey doing the same. Ian cocks his eyebrows ever so slightly, as if to ask what Mickey thinks of divulging some details, to which Mickey responds with a very subtle look of _don't even think about it,_ and Ian takes a tiny breath. He turns back to Mandy.

"Um," he says eloquently, folding his arms. "Let's just say it's... physical."

Mickey groans, and Ian can hear him mutter a string of curse words as he covers his eyes with his hand. Meanwhile, Mandy just raises her eyebrows.

"Wow," she says, nodding. "Okay."

Ian frowns.

"Okay?" he says. He can see Mickey peeking out from under his hand, in the periphery of his vision.

"Yeah," Mandy says with a shrug. She shifts a little where she sits. "I mean, I'm surprised, but at the same time not, you know?"

She glances at Mickey, so briefly that Ian almost doesn't notice, but he catches it. He also catches the meaningful look behind it, because it makes Mickey's shoulders relax just the slightest bit. He makes a mental note to ask about that later.

"So you're not mad?" Mickey asks, to Ian's surprise, and Mandy pulls back.

"What?" she says, shaking her head. "No, why the fuck would I be mad? Sure, you could've told me sooner, but I'm not fucking mad. You're the first guy he's met who isn't a complete tool." She gestures at Ian, eyes still on Mickey. She cocks her head. "I mean, you're still kind of a dick, but you know―"

She shrugs, and Mickey doesn't argue.

"So, you're okay with this?" Ian asks, brow furrowed, and Mandy turns back to him. He can't imagine why she would be angry, but he was still a bit worried that she might be.

Mandy sighs heavily.

"I'm totally fine with it," she says, getting up from the couch. "It's a bit to get used to, but my two best friends in the world are fucking each other and having a good time, I'm happy."

"We're n―" Mickey starts, probably in an attempt to correct her, but Mandy ignores it. She throws one arm over Mickey's shoulders, and the other over Ian's, pulling them both into an awkward hug.

"Just don't get all weird about it," she says. "Don't break each other's hearts, and most importantly, don't ditch me."

Ian lets out a relieved chuckle.

"Couldn't ditch you even we tried," he says fondly, putting his arm around her and pulling her close. Mandy laughs softly against his shoulder, and Ian turns to look at Mickey, over Mandy's head. He looks relieved, happy, and when Ian smiles, he even smiles back.

"Now," Mandy says after a moment, all business, breaking the hug. "I've got about a million questions about this, so sit your asses down, 'cause I'm not leaving until you answer them."

She doesn't wait for any kind of objection or agreement before heading into the kitchen, and Mickey and Ian exchange a slightly frightened look. Mandy is back in a matter of seconds, and she slams two beers down on the coffee table, gesturing at the boys to sit down while she occupies the armchair and opens a bottle of her own.

"So," she says, popping the cap as Ian and Mickey settle on the couch. "From the beginning. Go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An entire chapter from Ian's P.O.V.? Gasp! Yes, that happened. And since I have no idea how old Carl is actually supposed to be compared to Ian, I just made my own interpretation (Ian is 22 in this version), and yes, I am one of those who likes the idea of a bisexual Carl Gallagher. (Also, I feel like I'm slowly making up for all the smut that didn't exist in the first ten chapters or so, hope you don't mind...)
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	15. Leave Me With Some Kind Of Proof It's Not A Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> I'm honestly a little impressed with myself for keeping up with the schedule so far, yay me. Also, yay all of you because you're so amazing and you're what keeps me writing this and I love you for the love you show me. Thank you.
> 
> Just a note, though. I'm moving this week, and there's a lot of stuff do deal with over the next few weeks, so I'm not entirely sure how well I'll be able to keep up the schedule from now on. I'll do my best, writing this is a nice distraction for me and I love doing it, and there aren't that many more chapters to go anyway. We'll see. 
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-J7J_IWUhls))

"Did you know?" Mickey asks. Mandy looks up at him, a small frown on her face.

"About what?" she says, and Mickey gives her a look. "About Ian?"

She says it so blatantly that Mickey almost gets uncomfortable, but after a brief flicking away of his gaze, he turns back to her. Mandy shrugs.

"Not really," she says, resuming her task of unloading the box in front of her. "I mean, he never said anything, but..."

"But what?" Mickey prompts, curious. Mandy shrugs again.

"I don't know," she says, looking down at the box. "He never said it, but he always seemed a little too invested in you and your shit for it to be entirely platonic, in my opinion."

Mickey frowns, but doesn't even try to deny the little flutter in his chest.

"What do you mean?" he says.

"Well, for starters," Mandy says, "he wouldn't stop talking about you and that hypothetical girl you dated a few weeks ago."

Mickey sighs tiredly.

"I wasn't dating anyone―"

"I know," Mandy says, turning to him, a pointed look on her face. "But he didn't. And the idea of it kinda tore him up a bit." She turns back to the box. "Not to mention, he's always looked at you weird, talked about you a lot. Even when he's been dating someone, he'd talk about you more than them."

Mickey swallows, his throat suddenly dry. So Ian wasn't exaggerating; he really has felt that way this whole time. Mickey likes the little rush it gives him, the way it makes him feel warm in his chest. He resists the overwhelming urge to smile for no reason―his sister would never let him hear the end of it.

They're sitting on the floor of the apartment Mandy and Karen are to share, the living room currently nothing but a haphazard collection of boxes and random furniture. Mandy threw some of her stuff out, and Karen had mostly been living at her ex's place before they broke up, so she doesn't have that much stuff of her own. They opted to buy a new couch together, which is the only thing sitting here that looks new and pristine. Karen is on her way over with her own stuff, and Ian said he'd be over to help soon, once he'd finished up his Saturday lunch with his family.

"What about me?" Mickey finds himself asking after a few seconds of silence, recalling the look his sister gave him the other night when he and Ian made their little announcement, and Mandy turns to him. Mickey fidgets a little where he sits, cross-legged on the floor. He slowly unwraps a framed photo from the box, trying to ignore the feeling of Mandy's eyes on him. He doesn't need to elaborate for her to get what he's asking.

Mandy sighs, stops digging through the box and relaxes her shoulders.

"Remember Brett?" she asks, and Mickey nearly scoffs. Of course he remembers fucking Brett. He doesn't say that, though, just nods. "Well, you were always a bit weird around him. You used to look at him like you wanted to eat him up. No one else really noticed, but I did, and Amy did feel a bit neglected."

Mandy nudges her brother, who looks up at her. He doesn't remember his high school sort-of-girlfriend feeling neglected, but then again, he never really made an effort to pay real attention to her, or talk to her about anything.

"And then there was always the fact that you never had a girlfriend after that," Mandy continues. "You never dated, except for that one time I set you up."

Mickey does scoff this time, recalling just what a pain in the ass that girl was. He doesn't even remember her name.

"You'd hook up sometimes, but that was it," Mandy says. "All of which could be explained away with the whole bachelor-thing, except I remember you also checking out my boyfriend in high school once, when he spent the night."

Mickey bristles, pulls back.

"The fuck?" he says, but it's mostly an exclamation of surprise, rather than defense. Mandy raises her eyebrows.

"Andy," she says. "Long hair, tall. I saw you checking him out once when you thought we weren't looking. It was so obvious I was surprised he couldn't tell."

Mickey does remember Andy, vaguely. And he does remember once or twice timing his morning bathroom visits to catch a glimpse of the guy shirtless and wet, stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his hips. _Shit._

He looks down to avoid Mandy's gaze. The photo in his hands is one of him, Mandy, and Ian, taken last summer. It makes him smile a little.

"So, what," he starts hesitantly. "You always knew?"

Mandy makes a small sound of consideration.

"I had an inkling," she says. Mickey looks up at her. She has resumed digging through the box, and he frowns.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" he asks, but he hears how dumb the question is, about a second later.

"Because we grew up in the same house, Mick," Mandy says, sounding tired, all of a sudden. She turns to him, dropping what she's doing again. She looks sad. "Remember? I know what Terry's like, I know the shit he did. I knew how you'd react if I brought it up."

Mickey presses his lips together. They don't need to say any of it out loud; aside from both falling victim to their father's abusive behavior, they both witnessed their fair share of violence against others at his hands. Mickey remembers seeing a few fag-bashings specifically, and although he couldn't at the time pinpoint why that somehow hit harder than anything else, he knows now. He remembers being horrified, terrified, but simultaneously selfishly grateful that he wasn't on the receiving end, somehow aware that he would be if he ever so much as considered indulging in what he actually wanted.

Interesting, how everything suddenly makes sense, looking back on it.

Mandy leans in and rests her head on Mickey's shoulder.

"I'm really happy for you, you know," she says, her voice painfully sincere. "Especially after everything. I'm glad you and Ian met, I'm glad you're finally okay."

The mood gets heavy, serious, and Mickey swallows hard. Mandy senses the shift into uncomfortable territory, and she nudges her brother's arm.

"Come on," she says. "I got a box of plates and shit, too."

She gets up from the floor and makes her way over to said box, before picking it up and heading into the kitchen. Mickey looks after her, then looks down at the framed photo in his hands. He puts it down gently on the floor, and gets up to join his sister.

Karen arrives a few minutes later, greeting Mickey and then heading down with Mandy to her car to get her stuff. Mickey keeps unpacking the plates and glasses, putting them in the cupboards and hoping that his sister and her new roommate won't mind his organized system. He hears someone step through the open front door, but doesn't greet them; it's probably Mandy or Karen, and they'll head downstairs again in a second, anyway.

Mickey keeps his back turned to the door, wholly focused on his task, so when someone suddenly comes up behind him and puts their hands on his hips, he jumps.

"Fuck," he exclaims in surprise, but even before Ian chuckles amusedly behind him, he can smell the bastard's amazing, enticing scent.

"Right here?" Ian asks cheekily. "Come on, we gotta have some class."

Mickey rolls his eyes, reluctantly smiling, and tilts his head when Ian's mouth starts trailing up the side of his neck.

"You're lucky I didn't kick your ass," he says. "Sneaking up on me, like that."

"What can I say?" Ian murmurs against his skin. "You look good from behind, didn't wanna ruin the view."

Somehow getting a blush and a half-boner at the same time feels weird, but Mickey is definitely feeling it, and he takes a deep breath. Still, he moves his hand up to the back of Ian's neck, not turning around, and he smoothes over his boyfriend's hairline with his fingers.

"Thought you weren't gonna be here for another while," he says, momentarily abandoning his unpacking in favor of giving Ian his undivided attention. Ian hums.

"Got out early," he says.

"They know yet?" Mickey asks, referring to Ian's family and the obvious news Ian may have shared with them, but Ian makes a noise of denial.

"Not yet," he says, kissing Mickey's neck as he slides his hands across his stomach to wrap his arms around his waist. It locks Mickey in against his body, and were it anyone else, it would make Mickey feel uneasy. But not with Ian. "Didn't come up."

He noses against Mickey's hairline, inhaling deeply.

"You gonna tell them?" Mickey asks.

"Yeah," Ian says. "Or we could do it together."

Mickey can't help the groan that escapes him.

"Yeah, that'd be fun," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"What does that mean?" Ian asks. He sounds amused, rather than offended.

"Your dumbass brother would have a fucking field day," Mickey says. "I ain't givin' him that satisfaction."

Now Ian groans.

"Yes, Lip can be an ass," he admits. "But he'd be happy for me, deep down. It's not like he hates you."

"Doesn't like me," Mickey mutters.

"Well, you don't like him," Ian points out, and Mickey cocks his head in admission.

"Touché," he says. "But you could just tell 'em. I mean, according to Mandy, it's not that much of a stretch, anyway."

He can't help the dry edge to his tone, and Ian seems to hesitate, before he loosens his grip and instead turns Mickey around in his arms. His hands settle at the small of Mickey's back, eyes on his.

"And what does that mean?" he asks, his tone soft and patient.

"She just wasn't that fuckin' surprised," Mickey says. "That's all."

Ian regards him for a moment, before leaning in and giving him a slow, warm kiss. You'd think the novelty of it would have worn off by now, but Mickey still feels high whenever it happens, eyes drifting shut as he moves his lips together with Ian's.

"Told you it's always been there," Ian nearly whispers against his mouth. It's not suggestive or sultry, just sincere, and Mickey sighs contentedly as they kiss, his hands sliding down to Ian's ass. He slips his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, and although it makes him feel like a fucking teenager, he does love it.

The kiss stays soft, chaste, but when Mickey hears the slightest creak of a floorboard, he still pulls away from Ian, opening his eyes. He turns to the kitchen doorway, and there is Karen, arms folded over her chest as she leans against the doorframe. Her eyebrows are raised, and she has the tiniest little amused smirk on her face.

"Hm," she says. "So that's where all that sexual tension was coming from."

It takes Mickey a moment to get what she means, before a pointed look from her tells him that she's referring to the first night they all met. The same night Ian kissed Mickey for the first time, after which Mickey proceeded to avoid him the entire night, in the most tense, awkward way possible. Apparently, Karen noticed, and he's not sure if it embarrasses or amuses him.

Ian clears his throat.

"You, uh," he starts in an awkward, good-natured tone, gesturing vaguely at her. "You guys need any help?"

Karen holds up a hand, an exaggeratedly nonchalant look on her face.

"No, please," she says. "By all means, continue. Why carry boxes, when you can be sucking face? We've got it covered."

She smiles a little, and Mickey decides that he definitely likes her.

"Just don't christen the kitchen," she says warningly, pointing at the two of them. "Or anything else. Behave."

Neither of them has a chance to really do anything but blink in response, before Karen has left the kitchen and headed back downstairs to help Mandy unload her car. Ian looks a little stunned, while Mickey just chuckles.

"What's so funny?" Ian asks, and Mickey pulls him in for a kiss.

"Nothing," he says, smiling against his lips. He suddenly feels giddy, relieved and happy at just how little he cares about someone walking in on them like that. He remembers just a couple of weeks ago, he couldn't even imagine kissing Ian in front of anyone else, and now... He honestly could not care less.

Ian smiles softly, bumping his nose against Mickey's in a fucking cheesy way Mickey knows he should pretend he hates.

"Then shut up," Ian says. He kisses him, and Mickey does.

* * *

Mickey is pretty sure Carl must have figured something out by now, as well. Since he started occupying Ian's couch, Mickey has started coming over less, while Ian has started spending more time at his place, and Mickey definitely knows that Carl is no idiot. Even though he's not exactly home that much, he must be able to tell that Ian's and Mickey's relationship has... evolved. He hasn't said anything, but Ian's tales of his eyebrow-raises and pointed humming tell Mickey everything he needs to know, and he finds that he's actually okay with it.

Nice to know the kid has some class, at least. Mickey isn't really looking forward to facing the entire Gallagher clan once this new information leaks out.

After helping Mandy and Karen carry shit all day, Mickey is exhausted, as is Ian, who is spending the night at his place. Mickey is already in bed, scrolling through some stuff on his phone as he thinks about today; while Karen had some questions of her own about how Mickey and Ian met, how they hooked up, and so on, she was at least polite about it. Well, as polite as a Southside girl gets, and Mickey was surprised at how little Mandy had told her. He was grateful, though, that his sister had kept the details to herself. Being out about his and Ian's new relationship is one thing, it doesn't mean he wants everybody else to know all there is about it.

He hears the bathroom door open, and he puts his phone down on the nightstand, all the way on the other side of the bed. It's ridiculous, but they have already established which side unofficially belongs to whom, and Ian is the one who generally occupies the side away from the wall.

Ian groans tiredly as he enters the bedroom, flicking off the lights so that the bedside lamp is the only one still on.

"Remind me again why we had to carry that fucking wardrobe up the stairs?" he says, rubbing his neck as he sits down on the bed's edge.

"Because my sister is lazy as fuck," Mickey says. "And it was a nice excuse for all of us to see those biceps of yours."

Ian glares at him over his shoulder, but Mickey just grins.

"At least we got pizza," Ian mutters as he turns back, picking up his phone from the nightstand, where it lies next to Mickey's. "Still can't believe you showered without me, though. That was heartless."

"Dude, we need to talk about this thing with you and showers," Mickey says.

"It's not the showers," Ian says, "it's showers with _you._ "

Okay, maybe that does make Mickey tingle a bit, regardless of how fucking gay it sounds.

"Well, you were sleeping," he points out. "And I was sweaty. Had to be done."

"Could've woken me up," Ian mumbles, still facing away from Mickey, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice dripping with something akin to sarcasm. "I'll make sure to call you next time I feel the need to clean myself."

Ian glances over his shoulder, before sighing and lying down on the bed, next to Mickey.

"I get a little obsessive sometimes," he says, half-seriously. "You know that."

"Yeah, I know." Mickey does know. Weirdly, it's one of the things he loves about this guy.

"And, well..." Ian starts, searching for the words. "I'm still trying to get used to this. I mean, I've been pathetic about it for years, and now that I actually have you, I wanna do everything with you. I'm just so fucking happy, and―" He stops himself, and Mickey gives him a gently prompting look. "I guess I feel like there's a time limit, you know? Like it's not gonna last, like I gotta make the most of it."

Mickey frowns. It hadn't even occurred to him that Ian might think that.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Ian swallows.

"I know," he says, but there's a hint of hesitation. "I'm just used to things ending, to people going. After a while, at least. It always gets too intense― _I_ get too intense―and it's too much."

"I've been around this whole time," Mickey says, honestly confused. "What's so different now?"

"It just is," Ian says, voice soft, unsure. Mickey gets it. He doesn't know how, but he gets it, and his jaw tightens, from concern, rather than annoyance.

"Ian," he says evenly. "I know everything there is to know about you. Mostly 'cause you never shut the fuck up, and you've basically forced me to learn everything, but still. I know of every single guy you've fucked, I know about all that Army bullshit. I know your dad's not your dad, and I know that your fucking aunt used to be buried in your backyard." Ian scoffs, smiling a little, and Mickey continues. "I also know all about what went down a few years ago, all the shit you did, and I still don't get how you're even still fucking alive. Not that I'm not glad you are."

Ian smiles properly this time, eyes going soft. He looks almost sad, except not. He looks... moved, and Mickey isn't sure what to do with that; he's certain he has never made anyone feel like that before.

"I know you got good days and bad days," Mickey says, voice a little lower. "I've seen it. Shit, you got meds stockpiled in my bathroom, you practically live here whenever you want. And I don't give a shit. That's the bottom line. I'm not going anywhere."

Ian swallows hard, expression hopeful, relieved, and concerned, all at once.

"But it's still different," he says, and Mickey cocks his head.

"Yeah, it is," he says. "It's more now, remember?"

He raises his eyebrows a little as he uses Ian's own words, and Ian breaks into a smile. He moves in a little closer, presses a kiss to Mickey's lips. It's a simple kiss, but there are a lot of words caught within it, and it puts Mickey at ease. He doesn't want Ian to feel uncertain, to be afraid. Mickey can't think of a single thing that would make him leave, at this point. He has already seen everything, and there is nothing Ian could do to scare him off.

If anything, he's worried that Ian's going to get tired of him, somewhere down the road. But that's a thought for another time, when he doesn't have the one he loves lying close like this, in his bed.

They stay like that for a little while, quiet and content, but not sleepy, and it's only when an obnoxious tone is heard that either of them reacts. Ian looks startled for a second, before noticing that he's still holding his cell phone in his hand, and he checks the screen. He groans.

"Battery's dying," he says. He turns to Mickey. "Charger?"

Mickey gestures at his nightstand.

"Drawer," he says, not even looking as Ian rolls over to search. He opens the top drawer, and Mickey hears some digging around, before the sound stops. He frowns, looks over at Ian's back, which is suddenly very, very still.

"What?" Mickey asks, and feels a twinge of suspicion when Ian clears his throat; it's a bit too lightly, and he can picture the amused grin on the dumbass ginger's face. Mickey's voice drops to flat annoyance when he repeats the question: "What?"

Ian slowly turns around, and when Mickey sees what's in his hand in place of the abandoned phone, he feels a pit settle in his stomach.

"Is this a vibrator?" Ian asks, shit-eating grin on his face, as he holds up the black contraption in front of him. Mickey could die.

"So?" he says defensively, and Ian's eyebrows go up.

"Hey," he says, still grinning. "I'm just surprised. Didn't know you had this kind of stuff."

Mickey's neck heats up.

"It's a kinda new thing, alright?" he says, and simultaneously realizes that his reply really isn't helping. Ian hums in thought.

"Have you used it?" he asks, eyeing the vibrator in his hand. Mickey swallows.

"Yeah," he mutters, and Ian meets his eye.

"A lot?" he asks. There's a different edge to his voice now. It's barely there, but Mickey hears it.

"A bit," he replies truthfully, and he swears he can see something intrigued spark in Ian's eyes. Ian moves in a little bit closer, eyes on Mickey's.

"And do you like it?" he asks, voice dropping to a low and husky tone that sends shivers down Mickey's spine, the mood shifting in the blink of an eye. His gaze flicks to Ian's mouth.

"Yeah," he says, licking his lips. He remembers the other day in the shower, how amazing it felt to have Ian touch him like that, his cock hard and heavy against his ass, rutting against him. He was seconds away from practically begging Ian to just do it, to just fuck him, but he couldn't. No matter how much he wants to, the thought of it is still unfamiliar and strange, and it still makes him feel oddly uncomfortable. He can't wait till he's comfortable, can't wait till he's ready to actually ask for it. He knows Ian wouldn't try until he asked.

"Does it feel good?" Ian asks, voice still low, as he leans down and trails his lips along Mickey's collarbones, his throat. Mickey can feel his tongue wetting his skin.

"Yeah," he breathes, eyes fluttering shut for a second. _Fuck,_ he's getting so hard already. How the fuck did that happen? Either way, Ian can tell, because he looks way too pleased as he glances down and sees the bulge in Mickey's boxers. He turns back to Mickey.

"What if I do it?" he says, and Mickey just blinks at him, confused. "You seemed to enjoy yourself, the other day," he continues. "Bet I could do it even better, this time."

 _Oh, fuck._ Mickey goes rock-hard in a split second, and he swallows dryly.

"Do what?" he asks, not because he doesn't understand, but because he wants to hear Ian say it. _Shit,_ he actually wants to hear him say it.

"Make you feel good," Ian says, placing a slow, open-mouthed kiss against Mickey's neck. He's half-hovering above Mickey now, vibrator still in hand. "You felt so amazing last time, made me come so hard. I wanna make it good for you too, make it even better."

Mickey moans, a startled, pleased sound, and he grabs Ian's hair to bring his mouth up to his own. The kiss is deep and devouring, Ian already breathing heavily, and _god_ , Mickey suddenly feels like he's starving. He wonders if he'll ever get used to the way they can go from zero to a hundred in no time flat.

"Yeah?" he breathes between kisses, wanting more of Ian's unabashed descriptions. "What do you wanna do?"

"Whatever you want me to."

It is, without a doubt, the most arousing thing Mickey has ever heard in his entire life.

The next few seconds pass in a blur, Mickey clumsily tugging off his underwear while simultaneously trying to keep his mouth attached to Ian's. Ian isn't much better, but Mickey couldn't care less, the two of them wonderfully naked within a minute, and _oh god_ , he loves the way Ian's skin feels against his own.

"You got any lube for this thing?" Ian asks breathlessly, holding up the vibrator, and Mickey groans, restless.

"Drawer," he says, grabbing at Ian's neck, his arms, his back, letting out a frustrated whine when Ian pulls away.

"Just give me a second," Ian says, sounding almost amused, and Mickey impatiently waits for the eight seconds it takes him to lean over and dig through the nightstand drawer, finding what he's looking for. As soon as he has it, he repositions himself next to Mickey, who yanks him closer. He wants him on top of him, wants to feel his weight, but Ian resists. He hums against Mickey's mouth.

"Easier like this," he gets out, and Mickey doesn't like it, but takes his word for it. He allows Ian some space to pull away, and while he drizzles some lube onto the vibrator, Mickey just takes in the view. _Fuck_ , he's hot, with a body like a fucking god and a dick that makes Mickey almost literally thirsty. He pulls his lip in between his teeth, eyes raking over Ian for what feels like an unreasonably long time, until Ian finally puts the lube away and leans down to kiss Mickey again. Mickey meets him halfway, so fucking eager all of a sudden that he can hardly stand it.

"So you've done this before," Ian says. It's more of an approving statement, than a question, and Mickey hums in confirmation as Ian nudges his thighs. Mickey spreads them, without an ounce of shame or embarrassment at acting so fucking _needy._ Ian settles more comfortably next to him where he lies on his back, kisses him deeply with restrained hunger.

"What d'you think about?" he nearly whispers, and Mickey barely even notices the sound of the vibrator buzzing to life. He just grunts in reply, wants Ian closer, and Ian emits a pleased moan at his boyfriend's enthusiasm, which is only amplified when he gently places the vibrator against his hole.

Mickey moans, startled. He grabs Ian's hair, breathes into his mouth, as Ian shifts closer and puts one leg over one of Mickey's to keep them spread. He half-lies on top of him, his free hand pressed against the mattress as he holds up his weight on his elbow.

"Do you think about me?" he asks, voice already wrecked, and Mickey sucks in a sharp breath as Ian presses the vibrator a little harder against him. Ian notices, ups the intensity. "Do you think about me when you do it?"

Mickey can barely hear him, just breathes raggedly as his heart speeds up. _Fuck_ , it feels good.

"Mickey." Ian's voice is sharp, commanding, and it's the hottest thing in the world.

"Yes," Mickey chokes out. Ian is moving the vibrator now, rubbing it against his hole where it slides effortlessly, slick and wet with lube. It's even better than when Mickey has done it himself, so much better.

"You think about me?" Ian asks. He's falling apart just as fast as Mickey, that much is obvious just from his tone.

"Yes," Mickey repeats, slowly moving his hips against the sweet pressure. He does it involuntarily, can't help it. Ian groans, kisses his throat and nips at his neck.

"Fuck, that's hot," he breathes, just by Mickey's ear. "You're so fucking amazing, Mick."

Mickey grips his hair tighter, his free hand sliding down along his stomach to stroke himself languidly, but he barely gets started before Ian stops him.

"No," he says, a suddenly eager edge to his voice. "Not yet."

Mickey grits his teeth, but obeys, which only seems to egg Ian on. Mickey can hear him swallow, as though nervous.

"Turn over," he suddenly says, breathless and excited, and Mickey feels a spark of confusion in the midst of the hungry, hot haze.

"What?" he breathes, opening his eyes, but Ian is insistent.

"Just turn over," he says, pulling the vibrator away and sitting up. He nudges a disappointed, flustered Mickey's hip in a way that tells him he has every right not to do what he asks, but that Ian definitely wants him to. And considering how Mickey trusts Ian, and that nothing he has done so far has been less than incredible, Mickey obeys, rolling over and settling on his stomach, prompting a sharp exhale from Ian that sounds positively amazed. He yanks Mickey's hips upwards, just enough to get him up on his knees, but Mickey barely even has a chance to ask what exactly his plan is, before Ian lets him know.

" _Fuck_." The word is more of a shocked breath, and Mickey's jaw drops as he feels the distinct sensation of what he knows must be Ian's tongue against his hole. He digs his fingers into the sheets, takes a few, quick breaths as he tries to wrap his head around what's happening.

"Good?" Ian asks from behind him, and Mickey can't articulate right now, so he just lets out a choked, approving groan. He nods for good measure, and Ian, clearly satisfied, goes back to work.

It's fucking amazing. After all that intense, albeit brief, touching and build-up, Mickey feels hyper sensitive all over, and this might just be enough to drive him completely insane. He screws his eyes shut, gasping and moaning as Ian teases with his tongue, kneading Mickey's ass with his hands and just really fucking _going_ for it, and _fuck,_ Mickey swears he feels it up along his spine, in his skin, coiling tightly in his gut.

"Fuck," he breathes, feeling anything but eloquent. He finds himself rocking ever so slightly back against the pressure of Ian's tongue, and Ian takes the hint, going a little bit harder. It prompts a cry from Mickey, one of equal surprise and pleasure. " _Fuck,_ Ian."

He can't take this. He swears this might actually kill him, because he has never felt anything this good before, and there is no way a person can survive it, right? There is no way he'll survive actually being set on fire like this, nerve endings overwhelmed and buzzing, _Ian_ being the one to make him feel like this, and _holy shit that's good, fuck._

His breath starts getting more erratic, and as though sensing that he's close, Ian moves his hand down between his legs to jerk him off. Mickey stops him. He has no idea why, he just doesn't want to be distracted from what's happening right now, and he uses all the focus he has to gently swat Ian's hand away. He can sense Ian's brief confusion, the way his tongue stops moving for a split second, until he realizes that Mickey doesn't want him to actually _stop_ anything.

As though encouraged, Ian keeps going with new fervor, and Mickey's arms lose all their strength, making him lean down with his face against the pillow. He groans loudly, heart pounding in his ears as his eyes stay closed, hips rocking idly backward. Then he feels it, a tugging, pleasant pressure at his hole, and _oh god, that's a finger_ , Ian gently pushing one inside as his tongue works alongside it, and Mickey lets out a loud, broken moan, muffled as he bites into the pillow―

He swears he goes blind for a second. His hearing is gone, blocked out by a loud ringing noise, and he practically collapses against the sheets. He only gives it a second, though, before finding the presence of mind to roll over onto his back. They're not done yet, and sure enough, Ian is sitting on his knees, looking completely wrecked and high and so fucking beautiful.

"You just came untouched," he says, chest heaving with heavy breath as he leans forward and hovers over Mickey's body, one hand planted on either side of his head. His eyes are shining, wide-open, and the stunned arousal in his voice isn't lost on Mickey. "That's so fucking hot―"

Mickey cuts him off, puts his hand behind his neck and pulls him downward.

"Come here," he breathes, and catches Ian's lips in a kiss. Ian groans against his mouth, hips moving restlessly against Mickey's, and Mickey moves his free hand down to wrap his fingers around Ian's still-hard cock. Ian gasps through gritted teeth, but doesn't object, only starts thrusting lightly into Mickey's hand.

Mickey has never actually touched Ian's dick before, something which occurs to him somewhere in the back of his mind, but it's not important right now. What's important is that it feels so damn good in his hand, and that Ian's moans are practically whimpering, desperate and needy, as Mickey meets his thrusts with his hand. It's so hot, so perfect, Ian's naked body draped over his own, and Mickey kisses him deeply, grabbing his hair like he has noticed Ian likes, and sure enough, Ian's noises take on a different tone. He nips at Mickey's lips, moves his hips a little faster, and Mickey tries to slow him down. He firms his grip a little instead, stroking Ian more deliberately, harder, precome making his fingers slick, and _oh_ that definitely does it.

"Mickey," Ian pants against his mouth. "Fuck, don't stop. Just like that, so fucking good."

Mickey kisses him again, keeps stroking. Ian's hips have stilled now, letting Mickey do the work.

"Mick―" The name is cut off by a moan, and Mickey feels the warm spurt of come against his stomach. He knows it should gross him out, but honestly it's hot as fuck, and the way Ian emits a sated groan as he finishes is fucking worth it, either way.

Ian seems to just barely avoid collapsing on top of Mickey, instead opting for rolling over and landing on his back beside him. Meanwhile, Mickey just stares at the ceiling, eyes wide with stunned realization at what the hell just happened. He licks his lips.

"What the fuck was that?" he says, once he finds his voice, and Ian takes a deep breath.

"That," he says, panting between the words, "was a rimjob."

"I know what it fucking was," Mickey exhales, too exhausted and high to really speak properly. "What―"

He cuts himself off, swallows dryly instead, and Ian hums next to him.

"Yeah," he says. "I, uh... Maybe got a bit carried away."

"You think?"

Ian smacks Mickey's arm.

"Didn't hear you complain," he points out, and Mickey fidgets a bit where he lies.

"Yeah," he says, drawing out the word. "That was... Holy shit."

Ian swallows.

"Good holy shit?" he asks. He sounds almost legitimately concerned.

"Fuck yeah," Mickey says, nodding vigorously. "Definitely. Just... Whoa."

Ian nods as well, Mickey can see it in the periphery of his vision. That said, he can practically sense the smug satisfaction emanating from the guy.

Ian seems to take a second or so to regroup, before opening a drawer in the nightstand and digging around, searching for something. Once he finds it, he shuts the drawer, and Mickey is a little surprised when he reaches over and starts drying off Mickey's stomach with a tissue. Mickey glances at him, and Ian does an awkward lying-down shrug.

"My bad," he says, but it's not really an apology, so Mickey can't find it in him to be annoyed. Instead, he just scoffs, smiling, and Ian looks at him, surprised. Then he breaks into a smile, too, which quickly turns into a chuckle. It's fucking ridiculous, but they both end up just laughing stupidly for a few seconds, and Ian takes the used tissue and tosses it to the floor. Mickey figures they'll deal with it later.

"I'm taking you on a date," Ian suddenly says, lying on his back, and Mickey frowns.

"You already did," he says, rather than giving the obvious reply of _what?_

"So?" Ian says. "I can take you on more than one, can't I? I did promise you the zoo."

Mickey grunts.

"Prefer sharks, remember?" he says pointedly, a little jokingly, and Ian snaps his fingers.

"Right," he says. "Aquarium, then. Wednesday?"

"That's specific."

"Well, Friday is too far away," Ian says. "It'll be a nice mid-week thing. Yes?"

Mickey hums in thought, biting his bottom lip.

"You still buying?" he asks, and Ian heaves a heavy sigh as he uses what must be most of his strength to roll over onto his side. Mickey turns his head so that their eyes meet, and Ian raises his eyebrows at him.

"Yes, you cheap bastard," he says. "I'm still buying."

Mickey makes an affronted noise.

"There's a couch out there," he says, pointing toward the living room. "Right there, just―"

Ian cuts him off with a kiss, groaning tiredly but smiling all the same. Mickey lets him, smiles a little himself as his boyfriend hovers slightly above him. When they pull apart, he's got a rather perfect view of Ian's face, backlit, red hair all over the place and eyes narrowed as he smiles. He moves his hand up to Mickey's face, smoothes over his cheekbone with his thumb, so gently that Mickey might just melt under the touch. Ian looks thoughtful, like he wants to say something, but the expression disappears after a second or so. He gives Mickey another kiss.

"You're hilarious," he says against his lips, but while Mickey hears the underlying fondness in the sarcasm, he can't help but feel like that wasn't what Ian meant to say. He doesn't mention it, though, figures that it's probably not his business.

"One of us has to be," he replies, and Ian chuckles, pulling away from his mouth and settling with his head against his chest. He shuffles his body closer, curls up against Mickey and grabs the covers, pulling them over the both of them. It's like a cocoon of warmth and safety, and Mickey puts his arm around Ian to hold him close, pressing a kiss into his hair.

There are a lot of things he wants to say, but he doesn't know where to start. With the silence hanging in the air, he wonders if Ian feels that way too, although he doesn't ask. It's a comfortable silence anyway, so what does it matter? Right now, Mickey is content, and he just wants to stay in this blissful bubble for as long as he possibly can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for their second date (which will occur in the next chapter, spoiler alert). Hope you're enjoying yourselves!
> 
> P.S. Anyone worrying about impending angst can relax -- this is meant to be a light, fun story, and there is no angst on the horizon. I promise. 
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	16. Oh, How I Love What You Do To My Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> Finally, after some delay, the new chapter is here (huzzah). I hope you like it, and thank you for all the love!
> 
> Note: Although there is an aquarium in Chicago, I have obviously never been, and while I attempted to do some research into it, I ended up just making this aquarium they visit some amalgamation of the ones I've been to, so bear with me.
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bt7q0nyrt0o), which you really should listen to either way, because it's amazing and one of my all-time faves)

"I feel like a fuckin' ten-year-old," Mickey says, but there is approval underneath the grumpiness, so Ian figures it's a win.

"Don't say that," he says.

"Why not?" Mickey asks.

"Because it implies I'm on a date with a child," Ian says. "And considering the stuff I wanna do with you, it makes it really creepy, really fast."

Mickey huffs a laugh.

"Sorry," he says. "But you're the one who took me to a fucking aquarium."

He says it while glancing pointedly at the group of children running past, a flustered adult in tow. It's getting later in the day, so the younger visitors are slowly trickling away, but Ian gets the point.

"And you're not complaining," he says. "And who knows, if you behave, maybe I'll even get you something from the gift shop."

"Oh boy," Mickey says with dry, feigned enthusiasm, but he doesn't sound entirely opposed to the idea.

Ian has always liked the aquarium. It's peaceful, beautiful, and he remembers coming here sometimes when he was little, whenever Fiona felt they had the time and money for it. He's surprised Mickey has never been, but then again not; like he said, the Milkoviches wouldn't exactly strike you as a field-trip kind of family.

They haven't been here long, but where Mickey has done his best to act like it's not a big deal, Ian can see the excitement gradually take over his expression. He actually stops to look at nearly every exhibit, and by the time they get to the big underwater tunnel, he's nearly on par with the little kids Ian has seen running around, in terms of enthusiasm.

"Fuck, this is so cool," Mickey says under his breath, staring up at the glass ceiling and gaping at the spectacular view, multicolored fish swimming above their heads. He glances at Ian, who's smiling so hard his face hurts at this point, and gets a slightly embarrassed look. He clears his throat. "I mean, it's bigger than I thought it'd be."

Ian nods, doesn't point out how bad Mickey is at hiding his unexpected excitement. Although, unexpected might be the wrong word. Mickey might not have seen it coming, but Ian did―he knows how Mickey tends to geek out over stuff like this, when he thinks no one's looking. Mandy and Ian both tease him about it sometimes, and every time, Mickey will get all gruff and self-conscious, pretending he doesn't actually care that much. It's only a few times Ian has refrained from pointing it out, and those are the occasions where Mickey just stays lost in it, gets more and more excited, until his face lights up like a kid's.

Those are probably the times where Ian finds him the most spell-binding.

They make their way through the tunnel, which is a pretty slow process as Mickey keeps stopping and craning his neck every two seconds. Ian watches him more than the fish, thinking about everything he wants to say, wants to ask. He swallows, keeps most of it in.

He remembers Carl asking the obvious question yesterday.

"Is Mickey your boyfriend?" he said, like it was no big deal at all. It was one of the few occasions since he de facto moved in that the two of them were up at the same time and actually had breakfast together.

Ian didn't answer him right away, avoided his gaze instead.

"Like, legit boyfriend?" Carl pressed, until Ian finally caved, even if his reply still ended up being nothing but a confirming shrug. Carl got it, nodded as he sipped his coffee.

"You love him?" Carl asked a minute or two later. It took another second or so for Ian to answer.

"I like how he smells," he ended up saying, to his own slight embarrassment, and Carl scoffed.

"Gay," he said, and Ian punched his arm. "'Bout time, though."

He didn't even sound slightly surprised―Ian would be surprised if he did, at this point, given how observant he is and how he must have put it together by now.

Ian is weirdly glad that his brother is so mature and calm about things, despite his teasing. Ian, like the rest of their family, never would have expected Carl to grow up being the one with the most stability, even when there is none to be found around him. It's something that makes Ian feel strangely hopeful.

He wonders now why he couldn't just say _yes_ to Carl's question, because he does love Mickey, like crazy intense loves him, he just hasn't been able to say it yet. Not to anyone.

The date keeps going smoothly, easy and light in a way Ian supposes it really only is with someone you've known well for years already. He knows Mickey better than he has ever known anyone, and yet he still feels like he wants to know more about him―because he will never get bored of him. And as Mickey pointed out the other night, he already knows everything there is to know about Ian.

And he's still here. Ian barely even knows how to deal with that.

They exit the underwater tunnel and start making their way through the rest of the place, stopping every once in a while to look at some exhibit, even getting to pet some tiny sharks, all while talking about random shit and flirting as much as Ian dares to do without running the risk of making Mickey uncomfortable. It's hands down the best date he has ever had. It even beats their first one, but only because he can tell that Mickey is completely relaxed and at ease, this time around. There's no tension in his shoulders, no glancing around like he's afraid of getting caught for just standing too close to another guy, no subtle jerking away whenever Ian "accidentally" brushes up against him. It makes Ian stupidly happy, and he can't really stop smiling.

They've been at the aquarium for a good couple of hours by the time they pass by the gift shop, and Ian slows down.

"What?" Mickey asks, and Ian considers it for a moment, before cocking his head in that direction.

"Come on," he says, and Mickey groans.

"Dude, no," he says, but his heart's not in it, and Ian grabs his arm.

"You've behaved," he says cheekily. "I promised you a gift."

Mickey grumbles a little to himself, looks around as though making sure no one can see his slight embarrassment, but he does nothing to resist when Ian pulls him with him into the shop. Once there, his arm is released, and Ian looks around.

"What do you want?" he asks, taking in the shelves of mugs and keychains and stuffed animals, and a whole lot of other crap, and Mickey drags a hand down over his mouth.

"I don't know, man," he says, smiling a little, eyebrows raised as he shrugs. "You tell me."

Ian hums in thought, scans the selection. He knows it's a ridiculous gesture, no matter what he gets, but he wants to make at least a little effort, and he goes through a bunch of more serious options, before spotting a certain corner of the shop. He smiles and heads over there, Mickey in tow.

"How about this one?" he asks, grabbing the nearest plushie and holding it up. Mickey gives him a tired eyebrow-raise.

"You trying to tell me something?" he says, and Ian eyes the green turtle in his hand. He cocks his head.

"Fine," he says, putting it back. He grabs another plushie, a little smile on his face. "This one, then."

He holds up the stuffed shark―specifically a hammerhead, just slightly bigger than his hand―and Mickey sighs, shaking his head at the ceiling.

"I swear, man―" he says, but Ian cuts him off.

"I know it's your favorite," he says, because it is. "And it's for a good cause, some of the money goes to preserving the oceans. It's a sweet deal. Also―" He wiggles the shark pointedly, as though emphasizing how awesome it is on its own, and Mickey meets his eye. There's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and his blue eyes are soft.

"You're the dorkiest fucking person I know," he says flatly, but there's a fondness there that's impossible to miss. Ian grins.

"Wait here," he says, resisting the urge to give him a quick kiss, since they're in public, and heads over to the register to pay for the ridiculous souvenir. Mickey, meanwhile, waits patiently where Ian left him, shifting his weight a little where he stands as he shoves his hands into his pockets, until Ian comes back. Ian hands him the shark.

"Here you go," he says brightly, amused by Mickey's slightly embarrassed reaction. Mickey smiles, shaking his head as though he can't believe how dumb this is. Nevertheless, he accepts the gift.

"The fuck am I supposed to do with this, anyway?" he asks as they make their way out of the gift shop. Ian shrugs.

"I don't know," he says. "I don't have stuffed animals, I'm a grown-up."

Mickey shoves him, and Ian laughs. Despite his abrasiveness, Mickey looks happy, holding the plushie firmly in one hand while the other hangs at his side. His hand is rather close to Ian's, and Ian wants nothing more than to take it and intertwine their fingers. He probably shouldn't, though; they are in public, after all, and he remembers how uncomfortable Mickey still is about that.

"So, what do you wanna do now?" Ian asks. They've been through the whole aquarium at this point, and all the kids are thankfully gone, but that doesn't mean he wants to leave. He doesn't want to leave Mickey, and since it is a weeknight, he's pretty sure they shouldn't go home together. They wouldn't be able to part ways, he's certain of that.

Mickey shrugs, chews his bottom lip. He's trying to act casual about it, but Ian sees the way he glances back the way they came, and he tries not to smile.

"We could go through the tunnel again," he suggests, and Mickey turns to him. He shrugs, but the approval in his expression is obvious.

"Whatever," he says. Ian wants to kiss him.

They do make their way back there, and the place is emptier now than it was before, quieter. Mickey lights up, just like before, and Ian once again ends up staring at him rather than the fish. Mickey fiddles with the stuffed shark in his hand―Ian is a little impressed that he's actually carrying it around so openly―eyeing the giant water tank surrounding them.

"D'you know that they have, like, sensors under there?" Mickey says, gesturing at the bottom of the stuffed shark's weirdly shaped head. "I mean, all sharks do, but it's still pretty cool."

Ian smiles a little, shakes his head. He didn't know that, and Mickey keeps talking, loosening up as he keeps looking up at the sharks and colorful fish swimming over their heads. God, Ian adores it when Mickey geeks out like this, about whatever. It really does makes him light up, eyes bright, expression animated, the excitement and passion make him so damn beautiful, and Ian just can't stop staring―

"I love you." Ian blurts it out before he can stop himself, and for a split second, he can pretend he didn't actually say it. Then Mickey stops talking entirely, however, and slowly turns to him. He looks weirdly shocked, and Ian swallows hard.

 _I shouldn't have said that._ It's how he feels, how he has always felt, but what if it's too soon, too much, what if Mickey isn't ready for that? What if he doesn't feel the same way? Ian's not sure he could handle that.

He opens his mouth to rectify it, to say something that might miraculously fix what just spilled out of his mouth, but he doesn't get the chance. Mickey doesn't even look around before stepping forward and pressing his lips against Ian's, hand cradling the side of his face, and every muscle in Ian's body unwinds. He can hear a soft gasp of surprise from someone standing nearby, but he doesn't care. Mickey is _kissing_ him, _in public_ , without an ounce of restraint, and Ian puts his hands on his waist to hold him closer.

It's incredibly difficult to keep it chaste. It's only a matter of seconds before the heat in Mickey's kissing rubs off on Ian, and it takes everything he has not to let out a soft moan, instead kissing Mickey more deeply, trying to convey it without sound. It works, Mickey pressing in a little closer, and _shit_ , he's actually getting hard. Ian can feel it, and he inhales deeply, trying to stay cool.

"We need to get home right now," Mickey whispers as he pulls away by a fraction, and Ian frowns a little.

"But―" he starts, only to have Mickey cut him off.

"Right _now,_ Ian," he says, impatiently this time, and Ian swallows.

"Right," he says, nodding, getting the message. "Yeah. Right now."

_Right fucking now._

* * *

The car ride back to Mickey's place is one of the longest and most excruciating Mickey has ever experienced. It's not even that far, but he still spends the entirety of it watching Ian drive, running his hand along his thigh and leaning in once or twice to kiss his neck. It's stupid, he has never behaved like this before, but he can't help it; he needs Ian naked and on him, _STAT,_ and they simply cannot get home fast enough.

The feeling is clearly mutual, because Ian nearly whimpers whenever Mickey kisses him, the noise full of impatient arousal, and just parking the car and making their way up to Mickey's apartment is a challenge. They can't stop touching each other, can't stop kissing, and they practically fall through the front door when they finally reach it, already tugging off jackets and shoes.

Mickey had the presence of mind to stuff that damn plushie into his jacket pocket, and he's glad to see its head poking out as said jacket hits the floor. He doesn't bother hanging the jacket up, and neither does Ian, the two of them stumbling through the living room with a very clear goal in mind. Mickey's mind is a hot, hungry haze, and he's not even shy about the moans and grunts that escape him as Ian bites his lip and pushes his tongue into his mouth. Ian's shirt has already been tugged over his head and discarded when they enter the bedroom, Mickey's not far behind, and he moves his hands down to undo Ian's pants.

"Fuck," Ian breathes, clearly as lost in this as Mickey. "God, you're amazing."

He says it more like he's thinking out loud, and Mickey groans low in his throat, sliding his hands down to grab Ian's ass as those damn jeans are pushed out of the way. Ian yanks him closer by the hips, dipping his head to kiss his neck, and Mickey closes his eyes, exhaling heavily as he uses one hand to card through Ian's hair.

 _Ian loves me._ He can't stop thinking about it, can't stop it from playing on repeat in the back of his mind, and while he was―is―too stunned to say anything back, he does his best to convey some reciprocation.

_Ian loves me._

He pushes Ian back, until he hits the foot of the bed and falls back onto it, sitting on the edge. Ian looks up at him, mouth half-open, panting, face flushed, and Mickey undoes his own jeans and takes them off. It's not particularly smooth or enticing, but it's clearly enough, because Ian can't stop looking at him like he wants to eat him for dessert, quickly pulling off his own pants completely, just as Mickey swoops down and straddles his lap. He reclaims Ian's mouth, kissing him deeply as Ian's hands move up to cup his face, to slide down and grab his ass, and Mickey pushes him again, pushes against his chest until he lies down on his back.

It's all happening so fast, it's like a blur, but Mickey is not about to slow down, and neither is Ian. He's so fucking hard, and the feeling of Ian's cock rubbing against his is perfection, once they've shuffled up along the bed and settled more comfortably.

Deep moans and heavy breathing fill the still semi-darkness of Mickey's bedroom, as searching hands slide over hot skin and taut muscles, hungry mouths tasting and kissing and biting. _God,_ Mickey wants this, he wants is so fucking badly, and he starts kissing down along Ian's throat, over his collarbones, still straddling his hips.

He feels high, brave and bold, so much so that he doesn't even stop to think as he keeps kissing his way down Ian's chest. His skin tastes so good, so warm and soft, with just the slightest hint of salty sweat, and by the time Mickey regains some of his senses, he has reached just below Ian's navel. He hears Ian's breath hitch as he traces his lips above the hemline of his underwear, feels the muscles tense as he pulls the boxers down over his hips.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ Mickey has no idea, has never done this before, and just the thought of it would have weirdly terrified him not too long ago, but he can't find it in him to think about that right now. Now, he just wants to make Ian feel good, just like he has done with Mickey so many times already, and he wants to show him in every way he can how much he fucking wants this. _All_ of this.

Ian's cock is hard when Mickey takes it in his hand, and he lets out a heavy breath. Ian feels it, feels the heat of it against him, and he arches ever so slightly with his hips as a soft moan spills from his mouth. Mickey licks his lips, glances up at Ian, before flicking his gaze back down and taking a deep breath. He wants this.

The reaction is immediate, once he takes Ian into his mouth. Ian gasps, fabric rustling as he pushes his head back against the pillow, jaw dropping in a low, drawn-out moan.

"Fuck," he breathes. He sounds stunned, disbelieving, blissful, and his one word is enough to make Mickey even harder. He slides down further, bobbing his head slowly as he tries to remember any details he might know about this stuff. It can't be that difficult, right? Judging by Ian's reaction, just putting his mouth on him seems to go a long way, and fuck if he himself doesn't like it already.

"Mickey," Ian says, carefully moving his hand down to smooth over Mickey's hair, his cheek. It's so damn good. "Oh, god."

Mickey takes the praise, is encouraged by it, and he uses his hand to stroke Ian slowly at the base and gently massage his balls. He can taste what he knows is salty precome against his tongue, and he likes it a lot more than he thought he would, eyes closed as he hollows his cheeks with some suction, savoring the way Ian actually whines in response.

He keeps it slow, keeps it relatively gentle―he doesn't want Ian to come, not yet. He wants so much more than this. He wants everything.

It's not long before Ian is breathing hard and mumbling gibberish, but Mickey can make out a few curses and words of praise, which is more than enough for him. He moves faster, takes Ian as deep as he can―which isn't very deep―using his tongue to pay some extra attention to the sensitive head and drawing more and more sweet noises out of his boyfriend. When Ian's fingers start tightening a little on his hair, he takes it as a warning, and slows down. He pulls off and licks his lips, looks up at Ian as he starts making his way back up along his chest, much faster than he went on the way down. As soon as he's close enough, Ian pulls him in for a kiss, starving, hard and deep, and Mickey moans against his mouth.

"Fuck, Mickey," Ian breathes, pulling away just far enough to speak, while Mickey clumsily takes off his own underwear and throws them to the floor. "Jesus fucking Christ."

Mickey swallows, some nervousness creeping up on him. It's not nearly as bad as it used to be, but it's still there.

"I wanna do it," he says. He's out of breath, voice heavy with lust, and Ian pulls away a little further. He looks confused for a moment, but one pointed look from Mickey is all he needs to catch on, and when he does, his entire expression changes.

He nods.

"Okay," he says, sounding stunned and eager now, chest heaving. "Okay. How do you wanna...?" He trails off, before elaborating. "I mean, I can bottom, if you want."

Mickey nearly bursts out laughing, not because it's a dumb suggestion, but because _of course_ Ian would set aside his own preferences for the sake of Mickey and this being his first time. It immediately takes some of the pressure off.

Mickey doesn't laugh, settles for a small smile, instead.

"As awesome as that sounds," he says. "I really need you to fuck me, right now."

The look on Ian's face is something Mickey has rarely, if ever, seen before. It's suddenly all heat and greed, mingled with some kind of shock, but he doesn't really get to watch it for long before Ian has grabbed him tight and rolled them both over, with a grunt. He lands on top of Mickey, caging him in with his arms on either side, and Mickey feels a tight heat coil in his gut.

"You like that, huh?" he says, a little teasingly, and Ian groans, kissing him.

"What can I say?" he says, sounding wrecked already. "Been wanting to hear it for years."

He moves down to kiss Mickey's throat, nipping and tasting his skin, and Mickey lets out a soft moan.

"That I want you to fuck me?" he says, any kind of filter that would normally keep such words in completely gone. Ian glances up at him, that greedy heat back in his eyes, and Mickey bites his lip as his boyfriend dips back down to bite and suck marks into his neck and kiss his way down his chest. He exhales, closes his eyes, moves his hand up to pull his fingers through Ian's hair.

"Fuck me, Ian," he breathes. He can't believe how good it feels to say it, finally―almost as good as the thought of Ian wanting this for so long, the thought of him wanting Mickey like this, moaning as he tells him what he needs.

Mickey hears the deep, low growl from Ian's throat, relishes the way his body tenses up as it slowly rolls against him, dick still wet and hard.

"Fuck me," Mickey says, and this time, Ian honest to god _whines_ into his chest _._ "Ian―"

"Okay, you need shut up," Ian interrupts him, a breathy edge to his voice, and Mickey opens his eyes. Ian is watching him.

"I thought you wanted to hear that," he says, amused and a little annoyed in the midst of it all. Ian cocks his head.

"I do," he says, and the debauched look on his face confirms it. "But if you say it one more time, after what you just did, I swear I'm gonna come right fucking now."

Mickey quirks a wicked smile, soaking up the praise at his novice, but apparently quite adequate blowjob skills.

"Well, we can't have that, now can we?" he says, pulling Ian into a kiss, swallowing the moans spilling from his mouth.

They keep kissing for a while, hot and slow, bodies arching against each other, and _god_ , Mickey can't really remember ever wanting anything as badly as he wants this. Ian pulls away and bumps their noses together gently.

"I really have wanted to do this for a long time, you know," Ian says. It's an odd thing to say, but he sounds so sincere, and Mickey remembers him saying the same thing about kissing him. He slides his hands up and down along Ian's back, feeling soft and horny, all at once. It's strange―it's more than hunger and heat, it's _need_ , sheer want, a sense of safety and happiness, in his very core.

"I know," he says, softly. It sounds presumptuous, but Ian gets what he means. He places his elbows on either side of Mickey's head, still rolling slowly against him, both of them still hard and impatient beneath the gentleness. It makes Mickey forget about any kind awkwardness or annoyance, anything that might distract him from this.

"You're so amazing, Mick," Ian nearly whispers, and while Mickey loves hearing it, he can't help the sudden, instinctual discomfort it causes. His reply is a reflex, and he automatically groans to hide he dumbass flutter in his chest.

"You're so fucking gay," he says lightly, and while he immediately regrets saying it, Ian thankfully knows him well enough to not take offense, and instead just gasps in feigned shock.

"What?" he says, while Mickey breaks into a small, relieved smile and moves a hand down to his ass. "How did you know?"

"Alright," Mickey says, grinning as he tries to stop the blush he can feel creeping up his neck, tugging slightly at the boxers still only halfway down Ian's thighs. "Come on."

"No, really," Ian says, craning his neck to get away from Mickey's attempts at catching his mouth with his own as a distraction. "What gave me away? Was it the boner?"

"Seriously," Mickey says, a laugh now bubbling from his throat. "Come on."

"This _is_ serious, Mickey," Ian says, with an expression to match as he meets his eye. "I'm―"

Mickey grabs his neck and forcefully pulls him down for a kiss, loving the way Ian's smile feels against his lips. Thankfully, the kiss shuts him up, and when Mickey pulls away just far enough to look him in the eyes, Ian's expression is one of playful mischief.

"You done?" Mickey asks, eyebrows raised. Ian nods.

"I'm done," he says.

"Good," Mickey says, smoothly moving his hand from Ian's ass and down between them instead, where he grabs Ian's cock. It's a little softened after their brief digression, but it goes rock hard again in a matter of moments, and Mickey bites his lip at the little gasp it draws from Ian's mouth. "Then keep going."

Ian keeps going. He doesn't need to be told twice, and very soon, they're both back to panting and groaning and grinding, Mickey closing his eyes at the sensation, Ian's underwear finally being yanked off and discarded. He hears Ian lean over to dig through his nightstand drawer, and he doesn't even open his eyes as a small click tells him Ian found the lube. He braces himself instead, takes a deep breath and tries to relax, excited about what's to come, and Ian kisses him deeply.

"I'm gonna prep you, okay?" he says, a little out of breath from excitement. "You want me to stop, just let me know."

Mickey bites his tongue to keep himself from making some smartass comment, instead just nods, and Ian nudges his legs. Mickey spreads them wide, gripping Ian's strong upper arm as Ian moves his hand down to slowly slide his lubed-up fingers against his hole. Mickey gasps. _Fuck,_ it feels good. So fucking good.

He hears a breath hitch in Ian's throat at the sight, and he presses his fingers a little harder against him, prompting Mickey to bite his bottom lip and groan.

"Good?" Ian asks, mouthing at his jaw, and Mickey tilts his head back.

"Fuck, yeah," he says. Ian takes the encouragement, slowly pushes a finger inside, and Mickey arches against the touch, gripping Ian's arm tighter. He wants to say something, but he can barely even think in words right now, and after a little while longer of watching Mickey and gauging his reaction, Ian adds another finger. It feels weird, but good weird, the slight burn combined with such sweet pressure, and Mickey is glad he's been using that damn vibrator more than once. It's all about relaxing, he's realized, just easing into it and not overthinking anything.

Ian's hips are rolling slightly against him, where he hovers over his body, breathing ragged and heavy, like watching Mickey is more than enough to get him where he needs to go. His scent and warmth, his weight, all of it envelops Mickey completely, only enhancing the amazing sensation between his legs, and Ian's mouth against his throat is like fire.

"Look at me," Ian says, sounding wrecked, and Mickey forces his eyes open. Ian's are bright and intrigued, pupils blown with lust, and he sighs. "You're so hot right now. So fucking gorgeous."

Mickey groans, bothered by Ian's apparent need to compliment and praise him like that, but simultaneously not minding it at all, and actually kind of loving it. He keeps his eyes on Ian's as he unabashedly responds to his touch, arching and grinding against it, gripping the sheets with one hand and holding onto Ian with the other.

It's hard to tell how long it takes before Mickey is ready; it could be hours or seconds, he doesn't really know or care. What matters is that watching Ian roll on a condom and stroke himself a few times to get it nice and slick with lube, is quite spectacular. Mickey can't stop watching, and when Ian crawls over him and covers his body with his own, Mickey doesn't have an ounce of nervousness left. He just wants to feel Ian, wants to know what the fuck he's been missing all this time, and he's definitely not the only one.

"Just say the word," Ian reminds him, as Mickey's spread legs settle on either side of him. "If there's anything―"

"Ian," Mickey cuts him off, his tone desperate and borderline needy, and it shuts him up. Instead, he puts his focus where they both want it to be, and within moments, he's pushing inside.

Mickey gasps, hisses through gritted teeth, hands gripping Ian tightly as he tries to adjust to this new sensation. It burns a little more than the fingers, but the pressure also feels better, and Mickey squeezes his eyes shut as Ian pulls out and slowly pushes back in, a little bit each time, until he's bottomed out. Mickey can tell from the way Ian's forehead drops to his, the way he lets out the most blissful groan Mickey has ever heard.

"Fuck," Ian breathes, swallowing dryly. "You good?"

Mickey hesitates for about a split second, getting used to way Ian feels inside him, and he nods.

"Yeah," he says hoarsely, sliding his hand down to the small of Ian's back, where he applies some soothing pressure. "Yeah, I'm good."

It puts Ian at ease, and after a few more moments of just _feeling_ each other, he starts to move.

It's slow at first, so very slow, and while it does feel a bit weird, Mickey quickly becomes a fan. Ian's thrusts are measured and deliberate, deep and hard, and Mickey can't stop wondering why the _fuck_ they haven't been doing this since the night they first met, because it's fucking _amazing_ , and he can't believe that it's actually happening. Ian is here, in his bed, fucking him so slow and sweet, and it's making him way more emotional than it should.

_Ian loves me._

It's not long before things speed up, Ian listening to Mickey's reactions and acting accordingly, paying attention to the way Mickey moves against him, the way he grunts and tightens his grip at certain points, and _god,_ it's amazing. Once they get into it, Mickey can't stop muttering and moaning, making more noise than he ever thought he would in bed, and Ian isn't much better, mixing in sweet words of praise and awe with his grunts of effort and pleasure.

Ian surprises Mickey at one point by grabbing his left leg and pushing it up against his torso, before he hoists it up to no doubt hook over his own shoulder. He doesn't really get far enough, though, before Mickey groans in protest at the painful stretch on the back of his thigh.

"Not that flexible," he practically grunts in a rush, between breaths, and Ian immediately eases up.

"Right," he says, out of breath and excited, with a frankly adorable hint of embarrassed sheepishness. "Sorry."

Mickey moans as he lays in a particularly amazing thrust, and screws his eyes shut.

"Don't worry 'bout it," he gasps, digging blunt fingernails into Ian's back, and Ian opts for holding his leg over the crook of his elbow instead. It's not that much of a difference from before, but _god_ , it makes for the perfect angle, and an almost surprised groan is punched out of Mickey.

"Fuck," he breathes, a desperate edge to his voice. " _Fuck,_ holy shit."

It turns into a string of nonsense and curse words, mingled together with moans and gasps, while Ian pounds into him at a gradually faster and harder pace. He mouths at Mickey's neck sloppily, biting and kissing and tasting, grunting with exertion and pleasure, just by his ear. Mickey feels like it's all he ever wants to keep hearing for the rest of his life.

"Mick," Ian says, sounding completely gone, like he can barely articulate words. He groans. "Fuck, you feel so good. So good."

Mickey moans in response, holding Ian tighter and closer against him―as if that were even possible at this point. He wants to say it, too, wants to tell Ian just how amazing he is, just how fantastic it feels to have him inside, just how much he wants this.

 _Ian loves me._ The thought takes over, blending with the sound of Ian's breathing and the way his body feels on top of him. _He loves me._

Mickey's grip on Ian turns vice-like, just as Ian shifts his angle the slightest bit, hitting that perfect sweet spot that Mickey barely even knew he had. He bites out a moan, every sense suddenly flooded with pleasure. It's so intense, he's sure he won't make it.

"Right there," he manages to gasp out. "Fuck, right there."

Ian obliges, pistons into him with new conviction, and Mickey can't even think. There's only _Ian,_ that's all there is, and he pulls him close, capturing his lips in a kiss as he tries to channel the feeling through some physical action rather than words. Ian takes it, accepts everything Mickey has to give, and before long, Mickey is simply falling apart. He's so close, so fucking close, and he knows Ian can tell, knows that's why he starts hitting his prostate with perfect precision at a relentless pace. Mickey chokes out a moan, eyes closed. He's not gonna make it.

Weirdly enough, as he comes, all he can really pay attention to is the way it affects Ian. The way Ian's breathing turns erratic and harsh, the way he holds Mickey close and moans into the crook of his neck, and especially the way his body stiffens when his own orgasm hits, what feels like only seconds after Mickey's. The thought would embarrass Mickey under any normal circumstances, but he can't help but think how he has never felt this close to Ian before. How he has never felt this close to _anyone_ before, and how that feeling is better than he ever could have imagined.

The weight of Ian's sticky, sweaty body on top of him is soothing, safe, and once Ian has regained some of his strength, he uses it to lift his head and plant a lazy, loving kiss against Mickey's lips. There's no tongue, no biting or hunger, just affection. It's sweet, and it's perfect.

Ian eventually pulls out and rolls off of him, and settles onto his back next to Mickey after tossing the used condom to the floor. Neither of them speaks for a very long time, and Mickey, trying to find a way to articulate everything he wants to say, slides his hand over the damp sheets to find Ian's. He finds it, and laces their fingers together. It's the first time they've held hands like this, and it's strange how it seems to ground him.

"I love you, too."

Mickey doesn't really mean to say it. Or maybe he does. It's how he feels, in his very bones, and now that Ian has said it, he can't see why he shouldn't. It still feels unfamiliar though, raw, vulnerable. He never says it, not to anyone. It seems only appropriate that Ian is the one to hear it.

Ian doesn't immediately respond, and Mickey keeps his eyes on the ceiling, waiting. For one insane, paranoid second, he's afraid that maybe Ian has somehow changed his mind in the last hour, or that he didn't mean it to begin with, but his irrational concerns are put to rest when Ian slowly rolls over onto his side next to him. Mickey still doesn't move, but feels every last ounce of worry drain away the moment Ian touches him. He traces his fingers along Mickey's arm, to his chest, splaying his hand across his sternum, so gently, like he's afraid to do some kind of damage.

Mickey feels a soft press of lips against his shoulder, and he finally turns his head. Ian's eyes are on him, hooded and warm, sated and full of adoration, and it makes Mickey's heart stutter. Ian smiles.

"Good to know," he says, and Mickey can't help but huff a surprised, relieved laugh at Ian's spot-on attempt at making him relax. It works, of course, like it always does, and Ian looks satisfied that it did. He moves his hand up to Mickey's face, where he traces his jawline, his lips, before leaning in for a kiss, sighing contentedly against his lips.

There is nowhere else Mickey would rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been distracted and busy this past week, so I wasn't able to spend quite as much time on this chapter as I would have liked, but there you go. Hopefully I'll be able to post next Wednesday, but I can't make any promises. Stay tuned!
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	17. Mind My Wicked Words And Tipsy Topsy Smirk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> Finally! I have not yet settled into my new home abroad, but after many (many) attempts, I have finally found the time and energy and focus to get this chapter done. It's just fluff and smut, but I really wanted to update (especially in these troubled times in the fandom), and more plot will follow in the next chapter. Although I can't say when that will be posted... Until then, thank you a thousand times for all the love you've shown this fic. You are amazing.
> 
>  **ALSO** , I wrote a little prequel ficlet-thing for this AU a while back. It takes place a few months before the start of this story, [so check it out!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4869557)
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jeo3an2M_Lo))

Ian awakens to the feeling of someone poking his face. It's soft at first, then more incessant, and he groans softly as he tiredly tries to swat the hand away. It's for naught, and he forces his eyes open, just a crack.

"'Bout time," Mickey says. "Come on, sleepyface."

Ian opens his eyes more properly, blinks a few times to clear his blurred vision. He's lying on his back, Mickey propped up next to him, and when Ian turns his head, Mickey ends up occupying most of his field of vision. Ian immediately has it confirmed that the sight of Mickey's soft expression and mussed black hair is the best thing he has ever woken up to.

"Good morning to you, too," Ian says hoarsely, stretching experimentally where he lies. Mickey quirks a smile, leans down and gives him a light kiss. Ian smiles sleepily, before frowning. "What time is it?"

"Just past eight," Mickey says without even checking. He doesn't elaborate, instead leans back down and kisses Ian again, slowly, warmly, and Ian sighs with contentment. Who gives a crap about morning breath, it's totally worth it.

The kiss quickly deepens, and to Ian's surprise, Mickey moves up to settle on top of him, straddling his hips. It sends an excited surge through his body, which is only slightly dampened by the soft comfort of it all. Mickey feels comfortable enough to do this, and Ian must say it feels completely natural, like they wake up together like this every single morning.

"Wait," Ian mumbles after a little while, not wanting Mickey to stop, but still trying to catch his attention. "It's Thursday."

Mickey hums.

"So?" he says.

"I've got work," Ian says, with as much incredulousness as he can muster in his sleepy, now slightly horny state. " _You've_ got work, we're already late."

"Call in sick," Mickey says, an inviting, but dangerous edge to his voice, like there's no room for argument. Ian can't say he doesn't want to follow that command.

"And do what?" he says, hands sliding over Mickey's warm, naked skin as he holds him close. It seems they accidentally fell asleep last night, and neither of them bothered to put any clothes back on. "Just stay in bed all day?"

"Why not?"

_That does sound like a fantastic idea._

"I can't call in sick," Ian tries to reason, shaking his head, but Mickey is undeterred.

"I will if you do," he says simply, pushing down slightly with his body as he takes Ian's hands and holds them against the mattress. Ian has about another second of hesitation, but then Mickey laces their fingers together, and he's gone.

"Okay," he says absently, oddly breathless as Mickey kisses him. "Just... Phone."

He can't articulate properly, all of a sudden, so he's not sure how he intends to actually manage a proper conversation, but he tries. He digs his phone out of the pocket of his jeans on the floor, and sits down on the bed's edge to make the call. He's barely halfway through explaining to his boss, in a feigned, sick-tired voice, that he's got a fever and that he won't be coming in today, when Mickey gets impatient. He slides his hands up along Ian's back, kissing hotly along his neck, pressing his chest against him. It nearly makes Ian sigh from sheer bliss, but he refrains.

Whatever discipline he has evaporates when Mickey's hand trails down along his side, his thigh, only to find its way to his half-hard cock where eager fingers wrap around it. Ian gasps, before forcing the sound back down and gritting his teeth as his boss tells him over the phone how he should take it easy and get well soon, this conversation quickly becoming the longest one Ian has ever had. Mickey pushes it, strokes Ian slowly until he's fully hard, sliding his hand down to gently massage his balls, and Ian closes his eyes, tilting his head back to lean against Mickey's shoulder. He can practically sense Mickey smirking, and he silently begs for his boss to hang up.

She eventually does, and Ian immediately tosses the phone away, turning around and grabbing Mickey roughly, slamming him down against the bed. Mickey doesn't even look surprised, just _laughs_ , that fucker, and Ian finds it oddly contagious.

"You asshole," Ian says, smiling as Mickey puts his hands on him and pulls him close. He's hard, too, Ian notices with great satisfaction.

"What?" Mickey says innocently. "You were taking too long."

"Uh-huh," Ian says, kissing him. "You gotta call in sick, too, you promised."

"Already did," Mickey says, and Ian pulls back, surprised.

"When?"

"While I was waiting for your ass to wake up."

"Really?" Ian says. "What if I'd said no to the whole staying-in idea?"

Mickey cocks his head nonchalantly.

"Wasn't really an option," he says, tone matching his expression, and while Ian feels a tiny twinge of annoyance at his presumptuous boyfriend, it doesn't last long. He loves Mickey's confidence after all, always has, and seeing it so clearly where sex is concerned is hot as fuck.

"Is that so?" Ian says, pushing his body down against Mickey's, their cocks slowly rutting against each other. It draws a soft moan from Mickey, and he licks his lips, arching up slightly and settling his hands on Ian's hips. He hums in confirmation.

"Yep," he says. "I had faith in my powers of persuasion."

Ian makes a growling sound in the back of his throat, nipping at Mickey's bottom lip with his teeth and smoothing it over with his tongue.

"You should," he murmurs as he kisses him, the kiss deepening in a matter of moments. Mickey eagerly reciprocates, holding the back of Ian's head as he pushes his tongue into his mouth, and Ian immediately goes from sleepy to wide-awake. Mickey is impatient, having waited a while already for Ian to wake up, and Ian loses his breath at the way he so unabashedly grinds against him.

"Roll over," Mickey says against his lips, and Ian makes a small, affronted noise.

"What am I, a dog?" he says, but earns only an impatient grunt in return, as Mickey takes matters into his own hands. He grabs Ian tightly and shifts his weight, pushing him off while simultaneously following the movement, and Ian soon finds himself on his back again, Mickey straddling his hips. It's slightly different than a few minutes ago, however, Mickey now sliding his hands across Ian's bare chest and arms, as though channeling some kind of hungry need through touch alone. It makes Ian's breath hitch, and he pulls Mickey closer.

"I've got an idea how we can spend the morning, at least," Mickey says in a low voice, and it takes a moment for Ian to catch on. When he does, he pulls back a little.

"What?" he says dumbly, and Mickey gives him a pointed eyebrow-raise.

"I gotta spell it out for you?" he asks, and Ian shakes his head.

"No," he says, a breathy, excited edge to his voice now. "No, I'm just― Just surprised, I guess."

"Why?" Mickey says, leaning down to kiss his neck. Ian lets out a soft moan.

"I don't know," he says, Mickey's hands sliding back up to his, like earlier. "Just..."

He trails off, closing his eyes, momentarily distracted by Mickey's hot mouth against his throat.

"Well, I did kinda enjoy myself, last night," Mickey says, voice filled with that cockiness that Ian loves. "Didn't you?"

"No, I did," Ian breathes, arching up against his boyfriend who pins his wrists against the bed. "Definitely. Very much."

His eyes are still closed, brain addled by the greedy heat Mickey manages to lure out of him, and Mickey smiles against his skin.

"Then how about you get the lube," he says, "and we'll do it again."

_Oh, fuck yes._

Ian fumbles as he does what he's told, grabbing the lube and coating his fingers, waiting for Mickey to maybe lie down on his back, before realizing that Mickey has no intention of moving. He just stays put, curves his back a little and goes from seated to standing on all fours, giving Ian easier access as he moves his hand down between his legs. Ian keeps his eyes on Mickey's, unabashed blue all that he sees, and when his slick fingers find his hole, those eyes momentarily close.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

Ian must admit that this is unexpected. Last night was all kinds of amazing, mind-blowing, a damn near religious experience, and while it was clear that Mickey enjoyed it too, Ian wasn't quite expecting him to want to do it again so soon. Not that he minds. Just the thought of fucking Mickey again, of being inside him like that... Holy shit. And Mickey hovering above him like this, full lips parting in panting moans as Ian touches him? Ian could watch it forever.

Mickey quickly gets the hang of it, slowly rocking back against Ian's fingers and groaning when Ian applies some more pressure. It's a beautiful thing, and when Ian slips a finger inside, he swears Mickey's arms _shake._

"Fuck," Mickey breathes, dropping his forehead to Ian's, gritting his teeth and licking his lips. "Jesus."

He closes his eyes, hands planted on either side of Ian's head, and Ian leans up just enough to kiss him, while he pushes another finger inside, prepping Mickey slowly and sweetly. _God_ , he feels good, so damn good. It's still so surreal―Ian has lost count of all the times he has imagined having sex with Mickey, long before this all happened, even before they became best friends. From the moment he saw him, he has wanted this, and last night was even better than he imagined, Mickey so responsive and encouraging underneath him, soft but not submissive, rough but not selfish. Ian wants to do it again and again and again.

The kisses grow deeper, more urgent, and Mickey uses one hand to slowly stroke Ian while he preps him, their moans turning desperate and fucking _needy_ , in the hottest possible way.

"Okay, I'm good," Mickey gets out, around the same time Ian starts getting impatient. He loves touching Mickey like this, but he wants to be inside him, wants to feel him. "Come on."

 _Always so eloquent._ Mickey nudges Ian pointedly, and Ian uses his free hand to grab a condom from the nightstand drawer. It's a bit awkward, angle-wise, but he doesn't want to stop touching Mickey for a second, not when he's got that enraptured, gorgeous look on his face. He's just about to open the condom wrapper, but Mickey snatches it from his hand, ripping it open with his teeth. That should _not_ be as hot as it is, but it really does it for Ian, who can't help but buck his hips upward, searching for friction. So far, Mickey has surprised him a bunch of times just since they woke up only minutes ago, and he doesn't seem to be stopping, anytime soon; instead of letting Ian do it, he rolls the condom on for him, and at this point, Ian's heart is beating so fast it's almost uncomfortable. He just watches, wide-eyed, as Mickey gets him ready, and he swallows dryly.

"You wanna...?" Ian asks breathlessly, nodding vaguely to his side, indicating that maybe they could do it like they did last night―he can't help but remember that Mickey is new at this, after all. But Mickey shakes his head. Instead, he takes Ian's wrist, prompting him to pull his fingers out and stoke himself a few times, getting his cock wet with lube, before Mickey unceremoniously pushes down.

He does it slowly, even slower than Ian did it last night, but that much is to be expected, and it doesn't make it any less fantastic. A sharp breath is punched out of Ian, and he grips Mickey's hips tightly, letting him take his time.

 _God,_ it feels good. Mickey is so tight and hot around him, straddling him like this and giving Ian the best view he could possibly ask for, and every time he pulls back up and slides down a little further, his face contorts into the best kinds of expressions. He squeezes his eyes shut, then relaxes, bites his lip and sighs, hands pressing against Ian's chest as though it grounds him, repeating the excruciatingly slow and amazing process over and over, until Ian is completely buried inside him.

It takes everything Ian has not to move his hips, to let Mickey take it as slow as he wants, and when Mickey finally does move, his brain explodes.

"Fuck." It's no more than a breath, and Ian closes his eyes, digging his fingertips into Mickey's skin. He feels it _everywhere_ , searing through his nerves, into his bones, and he grits his teeth in a muffled groan as Mickey starts to slowly ride him.

It's a little tentative at first, Mickey a little awkwardly trying to find a comfortable rhythm, but just feeling him like this is enough for Ian. Just twenty-four hours ago, this was still only a fantasy, and now it's bright, technicolor reality, Mickey slowly driving him insane for the second time in a matter of hours. _Fuck_ , Ian could die happy right now. Mickey's hands pressed against his chest, the sight of his amazing body on top of Ian's own, those amazing little noises he makes, the way he bites his bottom lip with every push of Ian's cock inside him... It's perfect.

Mickey is new at this, but Ian quickly realizes that he's a fast learner. He's eager, unafraid, so much so that Ian never would have guessed that he had his first time just last night. He makes up for his inexperience with enthusiasm―the stubborn confidence is incredibly hot.

Ian watches Mickey, trails his hands up and down his torso, his thighs, gripping his hips and thrusting upward to help him along. Mickey approves, that much Ian concludes from the way it gets a series of pleased, almost startled moans out of him, and how Mickey's fingers curl into fists against Ian's chest for a moment or two before going back to roaming restlessly across the warm skin.

_So beautiful._

Ian tries to pace himself for a while longer, but he can't help it, can't resist. He sits up in the bed, wrapping his arms around Mickey as he keeps riding him, keeps moving in such an exquisite rhythm, and Mickey responds encouragingly. He puts his arms around Ian, grabs his hair as he captures his mouth in a deep, hungry,downright filthy kiss, and Ian moans against his lips, mind reeling with the intensity of it all.

He moves his hand down between their bodies, takes Mickey's cock and strokes it slowly, precome making his fingers slick. Mickey bites out a hoarse moan, hips stuttering slightly, and Ian licks his lips as he pulls away just far enough to watch it. He likes seeing Mickey this way, that much he has already decided. When he moves his hand up to his mouth and sucks on his fingers, feeling that familiar salty taste against his tongue, the way Mickey watches him is breathtaking. His blue eyes are wide and glazed-over, lips parted in short, panting breaths, and Ian takes his time, getting his fingers nice and wet before moving them back down to wrap around Mickey's dick, prompting a sharp exhale from his boyfriend.

"Oh, fuck," Mickey practically whines, still fucking himself on Ian's cock, and Ian makes sure the pace is nicely matched with the strokes of his hand. Mickey squeezes his eyes shut, mouth falling to Ian's neck where it kisses and tastes, Ian moaning against his skin, overwhelmed. Mickey feels so good in his hand, so good around him, and when the pace starts to stutter, he revels in the noises Mickey makes. It's only been a few times, but he has already committed to memory exactly what Mickey sounds like when he's about to come, along with the way his breathing turns quick and shallow, every muscle going taut as he digs his fingertips into Ian's skin.

Ian keeps one arm tightly wrapped around Mickey's lower back, still stroking him with the other and twisting his hand in a way that makes Mickey nearly whimper. He thrusts upward more roughly, meeting Mickey's movements with his own, while Mickey moans against his shoulder. He's so close, Ian can tell. _So fucking close._

The pain takes him by surprise; Mickey's teeth sink into his skin right where his neck curves into his shoulder, at the very same moment as Ian feels him come in hot spurts against his chest. The bite muffles a choked groan, Mickey gripping Ian tightly as the orgasm racks his body. It fucking hurts, but the fierceness, the sheer possessiveness of it, is something Ian finds so much hotter than it should be.

It takes a little while for Mickey to come back down, body going soft and relaxed as he leans against Ian, all while Ian does his very best not to move. It's futile, of course, hips still moving idly as he searches for friction and heat, still inside Mickey and still reveling at how amazing it feels. He's not about to ask Mickey to continue, though, he wouldn't do that. Ian wouldn't blame him if he wanted to stop, letting Ian finish himself off.

"Don't stop," Mickey says after a few seconds, still nuzzling against Ian's shoulder. He sounds wrecked and exhausted, but sincere, and after a moment's consideration, Ian takes the permission.

He grabs Mickey and flips them both over, not stopping to wait for even a second before he picks the pace back up, snapping his hips forward and just losing himself in Mickey, losing himself in the way he feels, the way his body still tightens its hold on Ian even as its muscles have gone all tired and soft. Mickey's arms find their way around him, holding him close, one hand moving up to smooth over his hair in a way so tender in contrast to Ian's deep thrusts. Ian wants to stay like this forever, but also wants to finish quickly―he's so close he's just about to fucking lose it, and he knows Mickey must be too sensitive to keep going much longer.

Mickey says nothing, just exhales sharply with every movement, a blissful edge to the sound, and Ian burrows his face against his neck. He feels Mickey's chest pressed closely against his own, come easing the friction and making it hot and slick. It's all Mickey, _Mickey,_ the way his scent fills Ian's nose and makes him delirious, the way he kisses Ian's shoulder―right where he bit him, as though soothing the pain―the way he breathes, the way his legs wrap around his waist, the way it all mingles together with the smell of sex and morning breath.

It's all it takes for Ian to fall right over the edge.

The orgasm is blinding, hits Ian with such blissful intensity, and somewhere in the midst of it, he finds Mickey's lips and captures them with his own, moaning into his mouth as he comes. Mickey reciprocates, makes sure to pull Ian even closer and hold him tighter, making Ian feel like nothing bad could ever touch him.

Every ounce of energy is soon drained out of Ian, vanishing just as quickly as it arrived, and he falls limp against Mickey's body. His heart is pounding, he can feel Mickey's beating fast as well against his chest, and he lets out a heavy, sated sigh. His shoulder still throbs a bit where Mickey's teeth have no doubt left a mark, but the soothing kisses made up for it, and he would happily be marked by Mickey anyway.

After a full minute of silence and heavy breathing, neither of them having moved an inch, Mickey huffs a laugh.

"Good morning," he says, and Ian chuckles exhaustedly. He pulls back a little, watches Mickey's smiling face before he leans down and kisses him.

"Yes, it is."

* * *

Taking the day off was the best idea either of them has had in ages. Mickey feels high, so stupidly happy, and he can't stop touching Ian, can't stop brushing his fingers against his whenever they're near. The way Ian smiles every time he does is everything, the sight surely enough to sustain Mickey for a lifetime. He can't imagine ever needing anything else, than to see Ian smile like that, to see him look at him like that, to be completely blown away by the sheer love and affection in his eyes.

Mickey never really thought that kind of happiness actually existed, let alone that he would get to sample it. He never thought that he would be one of those people to just stare at another person like they're the sun; the source of his continued existence, yet too bright to look at without feeling like he's about to go blind. Not that he wouldn't happily go blind if Ian was the last thing he saw. Which is fucking scary, but he's done pretending it's not true.

They do nothing for most of the day, just stay in. It's getting colder outside, which gives Ian the perfect, albeit stupidly transparent, excuse to press himself against Mickey every chance he gets.

"Body heat," he says against Mickey's neck, as if that explains everything, as though he might catch hypothermia if he doesn't semi-permanently attach himself to Mickey's side. Mickey grumbles and pretends to mind, but not enough to make Ian back off, since he can―thankfully―see right through the ruse.

They spend the day much the same way they spent that first weekend together, making out and ordering in, constantly touching and just being near each other. You'd think they'd get tired of Mickey's uncomfortable couch, but Mickey can't find it in him to be bothered by it for even a moment―not when the love of his life is half-lying on top of him.

"I love you, you know," Ian murmurs against his mouth as they kiss, and Mickey smiles. He hums.

"Yeah, you mentioned that," he says, voice low. They keep kissing, Ian's hands sliding up underneath his shirt, along his back, and Mickey emits a soft moan of contentment. He could do this for hours―they _have_ been doing this for hours, already―but Ian still interrupts it with a small noise of his own.

"You just gonna leave me hangin', or―?" he says, a little cheekily, and Mickey grunts.

"Fuck off," he says, still smiling, and he feels Ian huff a laugh. He gives him a particularly long, hard kiss, before pulling away by a fraction. "I love you too, asshole."

It feels so fantastic to say. The only thing that feels better is the way Ian's body softens against him, the way he sighs happily as he hears it.

"That's better," Ian says, pushing Mickey down against the cushions under his own weight. He slides his hand down along Mickey's stomach, slips it underneath the waistband of his sweats, smiling wickedly at the way Mickey groans as he starts slowly massaging him through his boxers. Mickey tilts his head back against the one pillow propped up against the armrest of the couch, closing his eyes while Ian gets him hard in a matter of seconds, mouth trailing along Mickey's throat and burning his skin.

"Again?" Mickey asks with a breathless chuckle, and Ian groans.

"Yes," he says. Then he stops, looks up to meet Mickey's eye, a suddenly alert expression on his face. "Unless you don't want to."

Mickey smiles, unable to be annoyed with this dumbass ginger's apprehension right now. He still has no idea what the fuck got into him this morning, but he was hoping that the unabashed enthusiasm―still unfamiliar to himself, but nothing he regrets―would have put Ian's concerns to rest.

"I do," he says, and Ian relaxes into a grin, a heated look in his eyes to quickly replace the worry.

"Good," he says, moving back down to keep kissing Mickey's neck. "Then I wanna do it again." He nips the skin lightly, making Mickey's breath hitch. "And again, and again."

Mickey bites his lip, eyes drifting shut as Ian pushes a hand underneath his boxers to wrap his fingers around his cock, jerking in slow, firm strokes and prompting a low moan from his boyfriend. Mickey's hands smooth over Ian's clothed back, dig into his hair, and Ian only applies more of that sweet pressure when Mickey arches his hips against it. Mickey sighs, happily, wantonly.

_Again, and again, and again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much Mickey POV there at the end, but I felt like the chapter needed some. Stay tuned for more (but patiently, because it might take a while before I update again)!
> 
>  
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	18. And I See Colors In A Different Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> At long last I have posted a chapter (sorry for the wait). It turned out longer than I expected, so I hope that makes up for the delay, and if you haven't, you should really check out [my prequels](http://archiveofourown.org/series/346934) for this universe that I've been posting in the meantime. I hope you like.
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4IQpTeJfMj4))

"You've got butt dimples," Ian says, and Mickey stirs beside him. Lying spread out across half the bed, on his stomach and facing away from Ian, he looks just as ridiculous as he does adorable, and the fact that he's almost naked isn't exactly something Ian minds. All he's wearing is a pair of tight-fitting boxers, which look pretty flattering on him. All in all, not a bad sight to wake up to.

"I've got what?" Mickey says, words muffled against the pillow, and Ian trails his fingers down along his spine.

"Butt dimples," he says, sliding down to the small of Mickey's back and stopping just above the hem of his underwear. "Right _there_."

He pokes one of the small dimples lightly, then the other, and Mickey groans. He doesn't sound too bothered though, not really. Instead, he sounds oddly content as he sighs and lifts himself up from the bed, rolling over and depriving Ian of the view that is his ass.

"Jesus," he mumbles, settling on his back.

He blinks sleepily, black hair mussed. He's beautiful.

"It's cute," Ian says, smoothing his hand over Mickey's chest instead, his bare skin warm and soft. "I like it."

Mickey rubs his eyes, before letting his hand fall to the mattress next to him, catching Ian's gaze. Ian smiles, leaning down to kiss him, and Mickey responds eagerly, softly. Ian lets out a sigh as he pulls away, then chews his bottom lip as he averts his eyes, trying to bring up a certain subject in a decent way.

"So, listen," he says, but that's as far as he gets.

"Oh no," Mickey says flatly, and Ian looks up at him again.

"What?" he says.

"You've got that voice," Mickey says.

"What voice?"

"The one that means you're gonna ask me to do something," Mickey deadpans. "Something I ain't gonna like."

"What?" Ian says dumbly, a bit too innocently, and Mickey's only reply this time is an eyebrow-raise and a pointed look. Ian sighs, dropping any pretense. "Fiona's making dinner."

"So?" Mickey asks, and Ian tilts his head to the side, casually looking away.

"And she wants us both to be there," he says, not mentioning how Fiona also emphasized how long it's been since Mickey came over. Despite his abrasive nature, Ian's family actually quite likes him, especially since he has clearly been such a huge part of Ian's life for the past few years. They clearly appreciate just how important he is for Ian's emotional well-being, if nothing else, in a way they themselves can't be.

"No." Mickey doesn't even hesitate.

"Why not?" Ian says, meeting his gaze. "You've been to dinner and shit at my house a thousand times already."

"Yeah," Mickey agrees, "but never as your boyfriend."

 _Boyfriend._ It shouldn't still make Ian's heart stutter, but it does.

"Come on," he says, leaning in and smoothing his palm along the hard planes of Mickey's torso. "You're practically a Gallagher, at this point."

"Yay," Mickey says, the one word dripping with sarcasm, but Ian is undeterred.

"I mean it," he says. "And it's been weeks, you know. I think it's probably time to tell them."

Mickey lets out a heavy sigh, slides his hand over Ian's and entwines their fingers loosely, watching the movement with a thoughtful gaze. He's looking away from Ian, and Ian wants to kiss him. He always does, but right now is one of those moments where it's like a compulsion, a physical pull. It's immensely satisfying to know that he could just go for it, if he wants to.

It has been a while since they officially became a couple (two weeks, five days, and seventeen hours), even longer since they first kissed (four weeks and three days―not that Ian is keeping track), and that whole time, Ian has been floating on a cloud. This is normally around the time where he would start fretting about it all, where fights would start popping up in the relationship, fights about tiny things and habits and secrets, enough to cause too much friction. Mostly, it's around this time that his bipolar disorder usually starts to become an issue for the guy he's with, one way or the other.

But whenever these worries hit him, he remembers that all of that is already done―Mickey already knows him. While there is definitely still stuff to fight about, since there always is, Mickey already knows everything about Ian that could potentially tear them apart. And Ian knows everything about Mickey, down to the last, dirty, bleak detail. There is nothing left to uncover, no skeletons left to find.

They know each other, inside and out, and the certainty of that makes Ian feel like he could conquer the world.

Mickey is still looking at their entwined fingers, and Ian leans in, slowly, placing a small kiss against his shoulder. Mickey glances at him, Ian meeting his gaze as he brushes along his collarbone with his mouth.

"Don't," Mickey warns, but his voice is too fond to sound the least bit threatening.

"Don't what?" Ian says innocently.

"Don't try that distracting, coercing shit," Mickey says. "It's not happening."

"I'm not trying anything," Ian says, nudging against the side of Mickey's neck like a stubborn cat, tilting onto his back as he starts wedging his shoulder underneath Mickey's.

"I'm serious," Mickey says, but makes no attempt to stop Ian as he shimmies against the mattress, releasing Mickey's hand in favor of burrowing in underneath him. Mickey helpfully, if by accident or on purpose, arches up slightly as Ian does it, sighing tiredly. "I'm not doing a coming out-thing with your family."

He says it flatly, without irritation, and Ian doesn't stop what he's doing until he's on his back and has maneuvered Mickey up on top of him. He wraps his arms around Mickey's waist as he lies with his back against Ian's chest, and the whole thing must look ridiculous, but neither of them makes a move to change it.

"It's not a coming out-thing," Ian says, nipping with his lips at Mickey's ear. "Just free food."

Mickey grunts as Ian hits a ticklish spot, swatting at him.

"What-fucking-ever," Mickey says. "I don't see why we need to make a big deal out of this."

"They're my family," Ian points out, playfully licking at Mickey's earlobe with the tip of his tongue, earning another grunt and swat from his boyfriend.

"So?" Mickey says. "It's none of their fucking business."

Ian pokes his stomach, Mickey instinctively grabbing his wrist to stop him from tickling him further.

"It kind of is," Ian says, trying to twist his arm out of Mickey's grip. "Mandy knows, seems only fair."

"Mandy's one person," Mickey says, fingers tight around Ian's wrist. "Not a fucking pack."

"You calling my family a pack?" Ian uses his free hand to tickle Mickey, distracting him enough to release his grip, before he grabs both Mickey's arms and crosses them over his chest. He secures them there with his own hands, and Mickey sighs.

"Yes," he says flatly. "There's like fifteen of you."

Ian makes a small noise, kissing the side of Mickey's neck.

"Fair enough," he says. "But at least we're all housetrained."

Mickey groans, and Ian grins as he flips them both over, keeping Mickey's body locked against his own. As much as he likes Mickey's weight on top of him, there's something about lying on his side with the two of them pressed close together like this.

"So you won't do it?" he says, his tone not the least bit accusing, and kisses Mickey just below his hairline, on the back of his neck

"No," Mickey says promptly, twisting his arms out of Ian's grip and placing them more comfortably against the mattress instead. Ian plants another slow kiss against his skin, rolls his hips slowly against Mickey's ass.

"And there's nothing I can do to change your mind?" he says, voice dropping as he uses one now free hand to slide down along Mickey's side, and he can feel the way those muscles go taut. It makes him smile.

"No," Mickey says, suddenly not sounding the least bit convincing. He moves his body just the slightest bit, and it's enough to get Ian hard in a matter of seconds. He kisses just below Mickey's ear, touching the skin with his tongue, his hand sliding down to his ass.

"You sure?" he says, grinding slowly, and Mickey groans, resistance now gone in a heartbeat.

"You're a fucking asshole," he says, abruptly twisting around in Ian's arms, so that they're face-to-face. Ian emits a startled laugh, and Mickey captures the sound with his lips, one hand behind Ian's neck to pull him close. Ian pulls away after only a second, however.

"Uh-uh," he says. "None of that 'til you agree."

Mickey's eyebrows shoot up.

"You're blackmailing with sex now?" he says, and Ian nods, determined in spite of his own weak resolve.

"But not if you agree," he says. Mickey deliberates for a few moments, narrows his eyes.

"Pretty sure I can convince you, anyway," he says, voice a low purr, as he shuffles closer and slides one hand down to Ian's hard, clothed dick. Ian swallows, but does not falter. Since their first time a while ago, sex has become one of their favorite, daily pastimes, and given how much of a talented, fast learner Mickey has turned out to be, Ian has no doubt whatsoever that he could convince Ian if he tried.

"Probably," Ian admits. "Or you could just agree to stop postponing the inevitable, and you won't have to make the effort."

Mickey grunts, hand now massaging teasingly between Ian's legs. It feels fantastic, and it's incredibly distracting.

"Will you do that multitasking thing if I agree?" Mickey asks cheekily, and Ian quirks an eyebrow, knowing exactly which carnal activity he's referring to.

"I could do that," he says, excited at the mere idea of it, and Mickey bites his lip. His eyes flick to Ian's mouth.

"Fine," he says, relenting, pushing up against his boyfriend and holding him close, smiling as their lips brush together. "Deal."

 

While their morning activities left Mickey pliable and full of promises, he seems to be finding it harder to comply with Ian's request as the dinner draws near. Even as they pull up outside the Gallagher house several hours later, he's full of reluctance.

"Come on, man," he whines as Ian kills the engine. "We can still call this shit off."

"Nope," Ian says simply. He refuses to back down this time. "It's just dinner, nothing we haven't done before. And you promised."

"Did I, though?" Mickey makes a face.

"I distinctly remember that you did."

"Pretty sure I was coerced," Mickey says. "Seduced by your pelvic sorcery."

"All true," Ian willingly admits. "Still counts."

"Agree to disagree," Mickey mutters, tugging at the collar of his jacket. It's cold enough outside for scarves now, let alone a jacket, and it quickly starts getting too warm in the confines of this car. Mickey glances out the window, toward the house, and Ian sighs. He places his hand on Mickey's thigh, reclaiming his attention.

"It's just for a few hours," he says reassuringly. He understands why Mickey is apprehensive, while at the same time finding it exaggerated and slightly frustrating. "We'll just eat, then go. Okay?"

Mickey narrows his eyes.

"No coming out-shit?" he asks suspiciously, and Ian hesitates. He wants there to be some of that, really badly, for some reason.

"Not unless it comes up," he settles on. "Deal?"

Mickey thinks about it, before licking his lips, nodding.

"Yeah," he says. "Whatever."

Ian smiles, relieved.

"Good," he says. He glances over at the house, making sure no one can see properly from there, at this angle, before he leans in and pecks Mickey's lips softly. Mickey doesn't move, although Ian can feel him tense up the slightest bit even as he reciprocates. When Ian pulls away, those blue eyes look calmer, yet somehow more nervous than before, and he sighs. "Then let's go."

 

Ian never ceases to be amazed at just how many people can miraculously fit at a dinner table in the tiny space of his childhood home. The whole family is there, excluding Frank, whom they haven't seen in over six months now, and Jimmy is there as well. Ian remembers being ambivalent about him for a while, along with the rest of his siblings, but he has proven his worth in the past few years, and Ian is glad. Fiona seems genuinely happy, and that's really all that matters.

There's food, as promised, and as late afternoon fades into early evening, Ian can tell that Mickey is considerably more relaxed at this point. They're sitting next to each other at the table, which isn't unusual, but Ian feels somehow hyper-aware of it, like everyone here can just _sense_ their change in relationship. Well, Carl already knows, but that's it. Still, it's a strange feeling―Mickey smack in the middle of the Gallaghers feels completely natural, yet suddenly new, at the same time.

"So, Lip," Fiona says as the table is cleared for dessert. She sounds a little hesitant, like she has been holding off on asking her next question. "Amanda couldn't make it?"

Ian's attention flicks to his brother, who sighs, but looks surprisingly unbothered.

"No," he says. "No, she's been pretty tired lately, wanted to stay home tonight."

"That's too bad," Fiona says, as the rest of the family watches the exchange. "Everything okay?"

The question feels loaded, and Ian wonders why. He has been a little out of touch with his family over the past few weeks, for obvious reasons, and he suspects Fiona and Lip have talked about this particular subject before.

"Everything's fine," Lip says, and while his reassuring smile looks a little forced, the reply sounds genuine. "Next time, promise."

Fiona glances around the table, and seems to decide against pressing the subject while everybody is here.

"Alright," she says. "Well, bring her home some dessert, yeah?"

Lip nods, and that's the end of it. Ian glances at Mickey, who glances at him at the exact same moment, and tries to convey his thoughts of _what the hell?_ through just a look. Mickey catches it, of course he does, and he gives a miniscule shrug in return. Ian reminds himself to ask Lip about it at a later time.

Dessert is cherry pie, from the diner Fiona works at, and Ian doesn't miss the way Mickey perks up a little as he takes a piece for himself. Ian knows it's his favorite, and he smiles as he watches Mickey dig into it and maybe relish the first bite a little too much. Ian is so focused on it that he barely notices Fiona watching the two of them, a tiny smile of her own on her lips.

They all keep talking while they finish eating, loudly and rambunctiously, the only way they know how, even more so when Veronica and Kevin decide to stop by. They awkwardly squeeze in with the small crowd, and as the room is filled with the sound of laughter and voices, Ian feels a pleasant warmth swell in his chest. He has missed this. He has barely even thought about it lately, being so wrapped up in Mickey, but _god_ he has missed this, his whole family together. He turns to Mickey at his side, and their eyes meet. It takes everything Ian has not to lean in and kiss him, but he did promise he wouldn't do anything like that unless―

"So, what's new with you two?" Kev's voice cuts through Ian's thoughts, and he turns to him.

_Unless something like that happens._

Ian doesn't immediately reply, and his siblings watch him expectantly. The pie has been eaten by now, coffee and wine having been brought to the table in its stead, and Ian glances around. He can see Mickey in the periphery of his vision, chewing his lip as he folds his arms across his chest. There's something exasperated about it, but when Ian glances at him, he catches the tiniest look of sincere, albeit tired, permission. He swallows.

"Um," Ian starts, looking around the table, before turning back to his boyfriend. This time, Mickey just raises his eyebrows as if to say _this was your idea, not mine._ Ian would be annoyed at his superior eyebrow-communication skills right now if he weren't so stupidly in love with the guy. He clears his throat. "Well, actually, we―"

"You're finally dating?" Debbie interrupts, and Ian snaps his mouth shut, eyes widening a little as he straightens in his seat. Fiona smacks her little sister's arm, to which Debbie responds by just shrugging indignantly. "What? It's the most logical assumption."

Ian swallows dryly, turns to Carl with an accusing look, but his brother just shakes his head innocently.

"Don't look at me," he says. "I ain't no snitch."

Ian hears Mickey let out an amused huff, and he turns to him. He looks tense, relieved, annoyed and happy, all at the same time, and he catches Ian's eye. He shrugs.

"So, that's it then?" Debbie presses, reclaiming Ian's attention. "You're dating?"

Ian hesitates, all eyes on him. He shouldn't be irked by the fact that at least half his family has guessed correctly and essentially robbed him of the announcement, but he is. Even though he was kind of dreading it, he was weirdly looking forward to introducing Mickey as his boyfriend―making Mickey a part of the family, in a completely different sense.

Instead of saying any of this, Ian just nods.

"Yeah," he says. He sounds certain, which he appreciates. "Yeah, we're... We're dating."

Everybody erupts in a chorus of stunned, congratulatory murmurs and smiles, but Ian can sense the lack of authenticity.

"Are any of you surprised?" he asks flatly, a little annoyed, and the reactions of his family morph into ones of headshakes and shrugs, murmuring things like _not really_ and _yeah, no._

"A year ago, we might've been," Fiona admits, a little hesitantly. "But more recently? Not so much."

Her siblings murmur their agreement, and Ian just stares at them all, mouth falling open at the sheer lack of shock from anyone at the table. Kev speaks up, as the only one who actually appears stunned.

"Wait, shit," he says. "Really?" Mickey replies by cocking his head in an almost sarcastic, semi-nod, and Kev grins. "Oh my god, fuck. Man, that's awesome, congrats you guys!"

While Ian appreciates the sincerity, Kev still doesn't seem to have much trouble accepting the news, and it irks him. It's dumb, he really shouldn't care. What was he expecting, anyway? Some big spectacle, gasps of shock? Of course his family saw this coming. Of course they must have noticed, especially recently, just how much Ian cares for Mickey and in exactly what way. He's been in love with him for three years already, of course they fucking knew.

Maybe they could tell that Ian was no longer resentful about it, that it was finally something that made him happy, since he found out Mickey reciprocated his feelings. Or maybe they all picked up on the fact that he wasn't hooking up anymore, that he hasn't mentioned another guy in months, and that he's been spending even more time with Mickey than usual. Whatever the reason, Ian realizes he really shouldn't be so surprised that his family isn't, at this particular turn of events.

While Ian folds his arms over his chest, sinking a little bit in his seat, Mickey does the same, unintentionally mirroring him. It reminds Ian that while he liked the idea of this whole _coming out-shit_ , as Mickey put it, Mickey didn't. He still doesn't, uncomfortably shifting in his seat and trying to pretend he isn't uncomfortable at all. Ian glances at him, while his siblings joke about having a betting pool going about this, with Lip's interjection of always suspecting Mickey was overcompensating for something―earning a middle finger from Mickey, a reaction which Ian wholly approves of―and he feels the tension seep out of his shoulders a bit. Fiona seems to notice the strange atmosphere, and comes to rescue, all the same.

"By the way," she says, a bit too nonchalantly, "Carl just got a job."

There it is, the shock Ian was hoping for, except it's directed at his little brother, who just rolls his eyes.

"That's great, man," Lip says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Doing what?"

Carl shrugs.

"Hardware store," he says. "Whatever."

He's trying to sound casual and indifferent, picking at the table's edge as he leans back in his chair, but it's obvious to Ian that he's a little proud of himself. Ian's unfounded jealousy over having his spotlight hogged is quickly evaporated once he realizes that, and he smiles at his brother.

"Congratulations," he says. "Knew you had it in you."

Carl meets his eye, before dropping his gaze again with a small smile.

The night is wrapped up rather early, at least by their usual standards, and soon it's time for Mickey and Ian to head home. Carl tags along, wanting to spend the night at Ian's place, and there's a lot of hugging in the chilly night air as they leave.

"You need to come by more often," Fiona says as she holds Ian tightly in her arms. "We miss you around here."

Ian huffs a laugh.

"Yeah, okay," he says, hugging her back. "I'll try."

"You'd better." Fiona sighs against his shoulder, bringing her hand up to stroke the back of his head. She lowers her voice. "I'm happy for you. 'Bout time."

Ian doesn't reply, just hugs her tighter, before they pull apart, and Fiona smiles at him. She then turns to Mickey, who's standing nearby and just finishing off a cigarette, and grabs him by the arm. He looks startled, but doesn't object when she pulls him into a hug. Instead, he drops the cigarette to the cold ground and tentatively hugs her back, the movement a little awkward, but sincere. It makes Ian grin, for some reason. Fiona has hugged Mickey before, but it's still something out of the ordinary, something which especially right now feels like some kind of formal acceptance of him into the family.

"Okay," Fiona says as Ian, Mickey, and Carl head for Ian's old Honda parked in the street. "Drive safe!"

They murmur their replies and wave at the small crowd now milling back inside, and soon enough, they're on their way.

The drive home isn't very long, but Ian still spends most of it with his hand on Mickey's thigh, smoothing over the rough fabric of his jeans in a gesture that's more affectionate than teasing. Mickey doesn't reciprocate more than smoothing over Ian's fingers every once in a while―probably because Carl is in the backseat―but the soft looks he throws Ian's way are more than enough.

As they pull up outside Ian's apartment building, Carl unbuckles his seat belt.

"Hey," Ian says as Carl reaches for the door handle. "I might be back pretty late. Or tomorrow."

He tacks it on at the end, seeing as how it feels like a pretty fair assumption, but Carl just scoffs.

"Whatever," he says. "Don't come back at all for all I care. Be nice to have the place to myself."

He gives Ian a pointed look, to which Ian only rolls his eyes in response. It's not the first thinly veiled hint Carl has dropped about essentially wanting to take over Ian's apartment for himself, and Ian would be flat-out lying if he said he hadn't thought about it. He's thought about it a lot, actually.

"Yeah, okay," he says tiredly. "Go. Don't break my shit."

"How dare you," Carl says in mock indignity, before exiting the car, giving Mickey a wave, and heading for the apartment building. Ian pulls out onto the street as soon as he's inside, and heads back to Mickey's place.

 

* * *

 

"Well, that was relatively painless," Ian says once they've made their way up to Mickey's apartment a little while later. "Right?"

Mickey grunts, but he's actually not too displeased. He shrugs his jacket off and kicks off his shoes, heading away from the front door, when Ian grabs him, pulling him back. Before Mickey can object, he has pulled him into his arms, planting a soft kiss on his lips, and Mickey can immediately feel his entire body relax.

It's a soft kiss, sweet and one of habit, and Mickey moves his hand up to curl behind Ian's neck, pulling him in deeper. It makes an immediate heat flare up in Mickey's gut, and he closes his eyes, savoring how easy and fucking _right_ this feels. He was half-expecting tonight to be a complete pain in the ass, but thankfully, no one made a big deal out of it. Except Ian; Mickey could tell that he'd been hoping for a bit more of a reaction from his family, the drama queen, but still. Slipping into the new role of _boyfriend_ rather than _best friend_ in the eyes of Ian's family was surprisingly easy, and Mickey is honestly glad they went tonight.

Mickey ends the kiss with a light brush of his thumb against Ian's earlobe, gently―he can practically feel him purr in response―and Ian meets his eye.

"Want a beer?" Mickey asks, much too softly for it to be a simple question and more of an expression of affection, and Ian nods, a small smile on his face. Mickey's mouth tugs up at the corners. "Okay."

He heads to the kitchen, and the two of them soon end up on his couch, watching some old _Star Trek_ rerun on TV. Ian's phone chimes softly after a while, and Ian picks it up, scoffing as he reads the text.

"What?" Mickey asks, as Ian tosses his phone onto the coffee table.

"Carl just texted to remind me that I don't have to come back at all." He turns to Mickey, who frowns. "It's his way of telling me that he wants the apartment for himself, and he figures that I'm with you all the time anyway, so..."

He trails off, and Mickey grunts.

"Makes sense," he says. "Kid wants his own space."

Ian hums in agreement, and silence falls again as the two of them watch the TV. Mickey sees Ian worry at his bottom lip with his teeth, out of the corner of his eye.

"Maybe we should just live together," he suddenly says, and Mickey looks up. Ian says it lightly enough, easily, so much so that Mickey almost takes it as a joke.

"What?" he says, and then he sees Ian's expression, open and carefully hopeful, and he swallows. "Like... Like, _live_ together?"

The words sound weird, out loud, and Ian shrugs, face full of a little too obvious nonchalance.

"Yeah," he says. "I mean, Carl can take my place, now that he has a job. And you and me spend all our time together anyway, we already know we're a good fit. I have been bothering you for over three years now."

He says it with a small, pointed smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere, and Mickey just blinks, forgetting to even point out that Ian has never, not once in those three years, been bothering him.

"Well, yeah," he says instead. "But that's, I mean..."

"That's what?" Ian presses.

"Different," Mickey settles on. "Living together means not having a choice, not having anywhere else to go. It'd just be us, and―"

Ian lets out a small, impatient noise, dropping any feigned casualness. He covers the tiny distance between them, climbing up on top of Mickey and settling in his lap, straddling him.

"I don't wanna go anywhere else," he says, sliding his hands up along Mickey's chest. "And as far as choice is concerned, living with you would be that choice." He pecks Mickey's lips. "It'd be just us."

Mickey's heart stutters, and he averts his eyes for a moment, placing his hands on Ian's hips in a gesture that has already become a habit. He can't help but feel like Ian has thought about this before, and he has to admit that he has thought about it too, somewhere in the back of his mind.

"It would still be different," he says, meeting Ian's eyes. "I mean, what if―"

"What if what?" Ian says sarcastically. "What if you snore? What if I leave dirty laundry everywhere? What if I'm crazy? What if you're a grumpy asshole in the morning, who's annoying as fuck, but also totally adorable? Come on, we've already covered all that shit."

Mickey smiles a little, can't help it, but quickly turns serious again.

"I was thinking more like..." he starts, cocking his head awkwardly.

"What if we break up?" Ian supplies, and Mickey swallows, unable to agree with him out loud. Ian sighs, leans forward and plants another soft, brief kiss on Mickey's mouth. "So? Who gives a shit? Sure, that could happen, but― Mickey, you're it for me. I've wanted you for three years, and I kind of want you even more now that I have you. I'm pretty sure at least my mind isn't about to change, anytime soon." His confident expression shifts for a moment. "I mean, unless you think yours will―"

Mickey doesn't let him get any further.

"No fucking way," he says, firming his hands on Ian's hips, touching the exposed skin between his shirt and his jeans, fingers trailing along it and making Ian exhale. "You're it for me, too."

He can't believe he just said that, can't believe he feels certain and brave enough to actually say it out loud. But it feels all kinds of right, so how bad can it really be? He's madly in love with his best friend in the world, even enough to ignore how fucking sappy and cheesy that actually is.

Ian smiles, seemingly put at ease. He still looks a little thoughtful, not entirely relaxed just yet.

"So, you'll think about it?" he says. Mickey stops himself from saying what he's thinking; _I don't need to think about it, I want to live with you and touch you and wake up with you and see you all the time, let's do it right fucking now._

He nods.

"Yeah," he says, and he hopes Ian can hear that he means it. "Sure."

 

While Ian probably expected Mickey to take a few days or so, Mickey only thinks about it for a few more hours. It's very late that night, when they have gone to bed, that he brings it up. He's lying on his back, Ian lying on his side next to him, facing the other way, and Mickey chews his lip as he drums against his bare chest with his fingers. He glances at his sleeping boyfriend, the bedroom dark around them.

Why is he even thinking about this? Seeing Ian sleeping next to him is one of the best things he has ever known, and he wants to have it every single night, every single morning. And it's not moving too fast, right? Not when they've already known each other this long, it's not that big of a deal.

Mickey swallows hard, pulls himself together. He rolls over onto his side, scoots closer to Ian until he's practically spooning him, and hesitates for about a second before nudging him gently. Ian stirs, hums in question, and Mickey leans his chin against his shoulder.

"Hey," he says, almost in a whisper. "You awake?"

Ian groans.

"Am now," he says, and Mickey briefly feels guilty for waking him up. He sighs.

"I thought about it," he says, and it takes Ian a few seconds to catch on. He half-rolls over, squinting at Mickey in the dim light.

"Thought about what?" he asks, but it's obvious that he already has an idea of, or at least some hope of, what Mickey is referring to. Mickey shifts, slides his hand absently along Ian's side, smoothing over the skin.

"The living-together thing," he eventually says, tilting his head a little so that his mouth, rather than his chin, is pressed against Ian's shoulder. He can feel Ian tense up a bit in anticipation, as though bracing himself for bad news.

"And?" he asks after a little while, when Mickey takes too long to elaborate. Mickey swallows.

"And," he says, wondering why he didn't just say this from the start, since he already knew the answer the moment Ian asked earlier. "Yeah. Maybe we should."

Ian rolls over properly so that he's lying on his back, looking up at Mickey who's propped up on his elbow. Even in the dark, Mickey can see that Ian's eyes are bright and excited, suddenly wide-awake. It doesn't even need clarifying what Mickey is agreeing to.

"Really?" he says, and Mickey nods.

"Yeah," he says. "I mean, you're right, we already know each other. And I want to. It makes sense."

Ian nods. Really, this shouldn't be such a big deal; becoming roommates isn't weird or anything, especially not when you've known each other for so long. But moving in with a boyfriend, with Ian? It feels somehow monumental. Monumental and fucking perfect.

Mickey pushes back Ian's hair from his forehead, the touch gentle and sweet, and Ian sighs. He puts his hand by Mickey's face and pulls him down for a kiss, Mickey closing his eyes as their lips move together, effortlessly, naturally, as Ian pulls him even closer.

Something about the touch changes, becomes more urgent, and Mickey groans as he slowly climbs on top of Ian to straddle him, already feeling that hard heat settle between his legs. Ian grabs his hips, grinds up against him, and Mickey sighs, sliding his hands up along Ian's chest, absently deciding for the thousandth time that he never wants to be away from this for as long as he lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


	19. If We Only Live Once (I Wanna Live With You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I will be deleting this fic and its accompanying ficlets on April 5th 2018, just FYI.**
> 
> Alright guys, I'm sorry to say it, but this is the last chapter of this fic. Not necessarily the end of their story, mind you, since I still fully intend to maybe post a prequel/sequel ficlet every once in a while, when I feel like it, but the main story has come to a close. I'm so happy and so grateful that you've stuck with it all the way, patiently waiting for this conclusion (I hope it's to your satisfaction), and your loving words and feedback are the reason I've been able to keep writing. So thank you, and enjoy <3
> 
> (chapter title inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8_xvWdY6Gr4))
> 
>  **ALSO** , now that the fic is done, I've put together a playlist with all the songs I used to name the chapters, and you can listen to it [here](http://8tracks.com/lemonoclefox/best-friends-and-all-that).

It's uncertain who's happier about the moving-in-together news, Ian or Carl. Ian is all giddy about it, while Carl actually fist-pumped the air when they told him he would be getting Ian's apartment. He hastily saved face and fell into a slouch instead, though, shrugging, but his excitement was still glaringly obvious.

"I mean, whatever," he said, glancing away and sniffing indifferently. "Cool."

Mickey was admittedly impressed with his attempt to appear unaffected, regardless of how transparent it was, and Ian went on to explain the conditions of him taking over the apartment. Surprisingly, Carl seemed pretty serious about it, and Mickey has a feeling that the main reason he got a job was to prove to Ian―and everyone else―that he could actually do it.

Mandy, meanwhile, is completely unsurprised by the news, as is Karen.

"I can't believe you're just now doing this," Karen says as she lounges on hers and Mandy's couch, one of the few new pieces of furniture in their apartment. Now that they've been living here together for a while, it's really starting to come together nicely, and it makes Mickey happy to see Mandy so relaxed and at ease, in a way he hasn't seen her in a long time.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ian asks, accepting the cup of coffee offered to him as Mandy brings it over from the kitchen. Mickey accepts one as well, and Mandy sits down next to Karen, opposite Mickey and Ian, who are occupying a pair of worn-down armchairs found on Craigslist.

"Well, I mean," Karen starts, "I haven't known you guys very long, but... I just thought you'd have gotten there sooner."

She shrugs, sips her tea, and Mandy chimes in.

"To be fair," she says. "You guys have been practically living together for weeks. And even before you became BFs, you already had the whole co-habitation thing down. It's hard to tell where the line is, these days."

Ian lets out something between a groan and a sigh, slumping in his chair, and Mickey turns to him. By the look on his boyfriend's face, Mickey would guess that Ian is still a little annoyed about the near-constant lack of surprise from people around them concerning their relationship developments. It makes Mickey quirk a smile; Ian has always been a bit of a drama queen.

"Alright," Mickey says, drawing the attention onto himself. "But you realize what this means, right?" Mandy frowns at him, lips pursed in a kind of confused pout. "You're gonna help him move."

He cocks his head toward Ian, and Ian lights up a bit, smiling impishly as he meets Mandy's eye.

"Oh, come on," she says.

"Fair's fair," Mickey says, enjoying the reluctance on his sister's face a bit too much. "We helped haul all your shit here, you owe us."

There's really not much to be pissed about; unlike Mandy and Karen, Ian is just moving some of his stuff into Mickey's place, leaving most of his furniture and such behind for Carl to use.

It's strange how the thought of Ian very soon becoming a constant resident of Mickey's home― _their_ home, now―doesn't freak him out nearly as much as it should. In fact, he's looking forward to it. The idea of seeing Ian every day, of falling asleep together every night, is enough to make his stomach do that annoying little fluttery thing it still does a lot these days where Ian is concerned.

He will probably never admit to anyone just how okay with that he is.

 

 

* * *

 

Mandy quickly relents, both her and Karen lending a hand in moving the surprisingly few boxes from Ian's place to Mickey's over the next week, and are repaid in beer, which they happily accept. Ian spends one last night at his soon-to-be former apartment, much to Carl's annoyance, while Mickey stays at his, and the next day, Ian drags his little brother along for a home visit. Fiona is pleased to see them, and while Carl hangs out with Liam for a little while, Ian and the eldest Gallagher sibling sit down on the steps behind the house. It's getting properly cold outside, but they can deal with it for a minute or two.

"Where's Lip?" Ian asks as Fiona hands him a cigarette. His sister raises her eyebrows, a small, sly smile shaping her lips.

"At home," she says, lighting Ian's cigarette before doing the same with her own. She puts the lighter down, takes a drag. "Being responsible, with the whole change of family dynamic that's going on."

Ian frowns at the cryptic tone, but Fiona just keeps smiling, as though waiting for him to figure something out. Ian eventually shakes his head.

"Okay, what the fuck does that mean?" he says in defeat, and Fiona chuckles.

"He didn't tell you?" she says.

"Tell me what?"

Fiona takes another drag of her cigarette, enjoying the way Ian glares at her impatiently, before she replies.

"Amanda's pregnant," she says, and Ian's eyebrows nearly reach his hairline as they shoot up.

"Wait, what?" he says, briefly remembering Amanda staying home a while back when the whole family was at the house, and Lip being there without her. He said she wasn't feeling well, and this must have been the reason. "When? H-how?"

"Ian, don't tell me we gotta have _the talk_ again," Fiona says, but Ian punches her arm before she can get any further, and she laughs. "I don't know, a while ago. He only told me yesterday, surprised he hasn't called you, yet."

Ian is surprised too, but at the same time not. He and Lip haven't hung out properly in a while, and he suspects that his brother's apprehension about this might have something to do with how Ian used to dislike Amanda when she and Lip first started dating. That was a few years ago, though, and he really hopes Lip realizes that whatever animosity he felt towards her has long since faded.

"Yeah," is all Ian says. "But that's great news! Right? I mean, they _wanted_ this to happen?"

Fiona snorts.

"Yes, Ian," she says, nodding. "They wanted this to happen." She brings the cigarette to her lips, inhales deeply, and Ian does the same. "Only a matter of time before he makes an honest woman out of her too, I guess."

Ian exhales, just stares straight ahead for a moment, flicking some ash off his cigarette. Lip, a dad? Just a couple of years ago, he never could have imagined it, but now... It makes sense. Finishing college, getting a nice, stable job, with a relationship that seems pretty damn solid and consistent (and Amanda has been a damn good influence on him)... Why wouldn't he have a kid? As much as Ian hates to admit it, Lip would probably make a decent father, these days. He smiles.

"That's awesome, Fiona," he says, voice softening as he turns to his sister. "Really. Can't wait to meet the kid."

"Yeah," Fiona says. "If it turns out to be anything like Amanda, it's gonna be a handful."

Ian chuckles, and Fiona mirrors it.

"Most likely, yeah."

They sit in silence for a little while, just gazing out over the barren backyard. They've even gotten some snow recently, just enough to dust the ground with white.

"So," Fiona says after a few minutes, flicking some ash off her cigarette. "Moving in together, huh?"

Ian nods.

"Yeah," he says, trying not to smile. Honestly, the idea of living with Mickey―as a couple―makes him happier than he thought it could. "Why, you gonna tell me we're moving too fast?"

Fiona scoffs.

"Fuck, no," she says. "Quite the opposite. You guys have been taking forever with this shit, it's about time."

"So everyone keeps saying," Ian mutters, and Fiona nudges him gently.

"Because it's true," she says. Ian turns to her, eyebrows raised dubiously, and Fiona smiles, hiding her face against his shoulder. She looks up at him, her expression softens. "You love him?"

Ian doesn't even hesitate, just nods.

"Yeah," he says. "I love him."

Being able to say it out loud feels nothing short of spectacular, and Fiona sighs. She lingers for a moment longer, before straightening where she sits and flicking her burnt-out cigarette away.

"Then that's all that matters," she says. She gets up, puts a hand on Ian's head and ruffles his hair, planting a kiss there as though he's back to being six years old. For the first time in a long time, it brings him nothing but warmth, and he follows, smiling, as they head back inside.

 

 

* * *

 

Ian wants to go all in the first night in their now-shared apartment, with home-cooked dinner and candles and the whole shebang, but Mickey isn't quite as excited. It's not that he's not excited to have Ian there, moving in, because he most definitely is, he just isn't comfortable making a big deal out of it.

Even though it is a big deal. Fucking huge, one of the biggest things Mickey has ever done.

Still, he ends up talking Ian out of it, blaming exhaustion for his lack of enthusiasm, and they order in instead, Ian making Mickey promise to have said cheesy-as-fuck dinner some other time. As if Mickey would have the resolve to turn him down twice.

Hours later, when it's getting late and dinner has long since been finished and the leftovers put away, Mickey is feeling pleasantly tired, soft and warm, curled up with Ian on the couch. He never thought he'd be the domestic type, but with Ian, he really doesn't mind.

They're watching some movie Mickey isn't even paying attention to anymore, instead focusing on the way Ian's skin feels under his fingertips as he absently trails them along his arm. Ian doesn't even react, just slowly combs through Mickey's hair with his own fingers, and it takes everything Mickey has to pull away for just a minute. Then, however, Ian reacts.

"Where are you going?" he says as Mickey stretches and slowly gets up from the couch.

"Gonna get some water," he says in a slightly dry tone. "Relax, I'll be back in a sec."

Ian notices said tone, and makes a face, but Mickey just smiles as he turns away and heads for the kitchen. He only has time to pour a glass and drain it, putting it in the sink when he's done, before Ian makes his impatience known; he practically ambushes Mickey from behind when he returns to the living room, locking his arms around him. Mickey emits a startled laugh.

"What's got you all chipper?" he asks, not bothering to pull away when Ian nuzzles his nose against his hair, just above his ear. It feels really good, and he even closes his eyes for the briefest second.

"First night in our apartment," Ian says, and Mickey's eyebrows go up.

"You do realize you've been here about a thousand times before?" he says, trying to downplay his own excitement. "Not to mention, slept here. Fuck, you were here yesterday."

"But I was always a guest then," Ian points out. "Technically. Now I live here. _We_ live here."

And fuck, there's that familiar, warm fuzzy feeling, spreading slowly through Mickey's very bones and saturating his skin, only intensifying as Ian lowers his arms to wrap around his waist and press up closer against his back.

"Yeah," he says. "Guess we do."

Ian hums as he puts his lips against Mickey's neck, inhaling just above his hairline and kissing him softly. Mickey closes his eyes again, a little longer this time, hands finding their way to Ian's and covering them, crossed over his stomach. This feeling really is the closest he's ever been to being high without actually taking anything, and he has no problem with that whatsoever.

They just stay like that for a minute or so, not speaking, just being close, and it's probably the gayest thing Mickey has ever done, which thankfully stopped pissing him off a while ago now. All he can focus on his how Ian smells, how his body feels, the soft sound of his breathing against his neck. It's everything.

The moment isn't so much interrupted as simply developed, when Ian loosens his grip around Mickey's waist, gripping his hips instead and slowly turning him around. Mickey complies, lets Ian move them both backwards, until Mickey is pressed up against the wall. The mood is slow, still and soft, and Mickey opens his eyes just a little, just enough to see Ian's warm, dazed expression as their gazes lock. _Oh god._ Mickey wonders if he'll ever get used to what that particular expression does to him.

Ian moves a hand up to Mickey's face, the other still on his hip, and smoothes his thumb over Mickey's cheekbone. Neither of them says a word as he leans in, so very slowly, and lightly brushes their lips together. Mickey feels the touch like a spark of electricity, running across his skin, and he wants nothing more than to surge forward and press their lips together, hard. But he refrains. He can tell Ian has other plans, and so he, somewhat reluctantly, lets him lead.

Ian's hand slides down along Mickey's cheek, his neck, thumb caressing his ear as his fingers slowly run through Mickey's hair and to the back of his head. Mickey's eyes drift shut again, a sigh escaping him, and Ian runs his tongue along his bottom lip, making Mickey part his lips further and deepen his breathing. It's slow, so torturously slow, Ian's mouth ghosting over Mickey's as though exploring it for the very first time, and Mickey can feel his own pulse speeding up. He puts his hands on Ian's waist, loosely twisting his fingers into the fabric of his Henley, and Ian exhales, moving in a little closer.

_Oh god._

The touch of Ian's forehead against his own is like an anchor, keeping him grounded even as the rest of him seems to be swirling and spinning out of control, and he tilts his mouth closer to where it wants to be. He can feel Ian's breath on his face, the way his hand slides further down along his hip, gripping just a little tighter as he brings their bodies closer together. Mickey swallows. It's all narrowed down to him, to Ian, to _this_ , and Mickey pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth, every ounce of discipline slipping away. It's Ian's breath that does it, that little moan he emits as Mickey tightens his grip on his sweater.

When their lips finally connect, Mickey instantly feels the mood shift. It's still slow, still soft, but now he can practically hear the rumbling heat rolling beneath the surface, just waiting to break through. He inhales sharply as Ian kisses him, yanking him closer and grinding against him. _Fuck,_ he's already hard. How the hell did that happen? The thought process is cut short, however, once he notices Ian's cock straining against his jeans, and Mickey groans, suddenly desperate. He pulls away sharply, just far enough to catch Ian's eye, and the message is clear.

They don't bother turning off the TV as they stumble toward the bedroom― _their_ bedroom―too wrapped up in each other to really notice, and once they fall down onto the bed, they can't really hear it anyway, all the way in the other room.

Mickey isn't sure how it happens, but in a blissfully short time span, his clothes have been shed, and Ian isn't far behind. Mickey lies back on the bed, propped up on his elbows, watching his boyfriend impatiently get his own clothes off, eagerly, waiting until Ian is done before grabbing him and roughly pulling his body down on top of him. Ian groans against his mouth as their lips meet, tongues moving together and making Mickey's head swim with feelings of heat and bliss.

Ian lives here now. Ian won't have to leave tonight, or even tomorrow. Ian is _his._

It's obvious that Ian is desperately trying to restrain himself as he soon uses his slick fingers to open Mickey up, trying to go slow but muscles shaking as he hovers above Mickey's body, leaving marks on his chest with his lips and teeth and tongue. Mickey, meanwhile, is writhing underneath him, gripping Ian's shoulder tightly enough to bruise and breathing so heavily he almost starts feeling dizzy. When he can't take anymore, he pulls Ian's face up to his own, kisses him deeply, ravenously, trying to convey how badly he wants to expedite things. Thankfully, Ian catches on quick.

It's only a matter of seconds before Mickey has turned over onto his stomach, and when Ian pushes inside, it's everything he needs, everything that matters, and he groans deeply into the pillow. He vaguely remembers a conversation they had a while ago about getting tested, so that they can finally skip the condom, but even though Mickey cannot wait to feel Ian inside him, without any barrier between them, this is more than enough. It's perfection, and when Ian starts thrusting, any other thought just evaporates.

Mickey loves it when Ian goes fast, all rough and demanding, borderline violent. It leaves him feeling so profoundly satisfied for days, and he just can't get enough of it. However, he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy this too, maybe even more. This slow, deep, _hard_ fuck, Ian moaning shakily in his ear, big hands sliding over his body and tongue and lips tasting his skin. Mickey keeps his eyes closed, grips the pillow tighter, brow furrowing as he emits the most embarrassing sounds. He can feel Ian's chest against his back, slick with sweat and tensing with movement, Ian's fingers running through Mickey's hair and grabbing it. Mickey lets out a surprised cry at the painful pleasure of it, and Ian responds in kind, groaning deeply as he burrows his face against the back of Mickey's neck.

 _Fuck,_ it's so damn good. Which is why Mickey is so shocked―and slightly pissed off―when Ian suddenly pulls out, releasing the grip on his hair and moving off of him entirely. Mickey doesn't even have a chance to say anything, though, before Ian makes another move. It's probably for the best, because Mickey is pretty sure he doesn't know how to use words right now, anyway.

Ian takes him by the hips and flips him over onto his back, kneeling on the bed as he deliberately grabs Mickey's legs and spreads them wide. Mickey is a panting, sweaty mess, and their gazes lock for about a second, before Ian suddenly drops down and takes his cock in his mouth. The moan Mickey emits is loud, stunned, and he grips the pillow so hard his knuckles turn white, instinctively wanting to screw his eyes shut and throw his head back, but he refrains. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Ian, on the way those lips wrap around his dick and take it all in, leaving the heated skin slick and shining with saliva.

 _Jesus fucking Christ,_ Mickey isn't ready for this, there is no fucking way he's going to last.

Ian, thankfully, knows this full well. He doesn't keep going for more than a few more seconds before pulling off, ending the impromptu blowjob with a particularly hard, slow pull of suction that leaves Mickey keening and nearly whimpering. Mickey does close his eyes then, just for a moment, and when he opens them again, Ian is staring at him, red hair a complete mess and falling over his hungry eyes. He says nothing, nor does Mickey, as he grabs Mickey's hips and yanks him up onto his lap where he kneels, Mickey still lying on his back in front of him.

Ian doesn't break eye contact for even the briefest moment as he firmly holds Mickey's body in place, and pushes in. It's not soft, there's no gentle easing; it's immediately rough and deep, and Mickey shamelessly lets out a groaning whimper at the feel of it. _Fuck_ , this is killing him. He's sure of it, this is actually how he dies.

The pace picks up quickly, starting off where they left it but soon speeding up, one deep moan after another being punched out of Mickey as Ian pounds into him. He closes his eyes, wants to keep looking at Ian but can't handle it, fists gripping the pillow above his head until his fingers go numb, and when he hears a deep, guttural groan from Ian's throat, he just might lose it. He loves Ian like this, commanding and relentless, and Mickey has no problem admitting to them both that when Ian gets this way, he can move Mickey around and fuck him any way he likes. After years and years of being taught to dominate, Mickey thinks, to intimidate, to be the one in control, just being the one at someone's mercy is incredibly hot. Being at the mercy of someone who would never dream of actually letting any harm come to him, whatsoever.

When Ian finds that perfect spot again, Mickey sees stars. His thoughts are reduced to nothing but pleasure and bright lights, and he frees one hand to tightly grip Ian's wrist, the redhead's fingers leaving bruises on Mickey's skin as they firmly hold his hips in place. He hears Ian's reaction, feels it, savors the way he fucks him harder, deeper, using his other hand to jerk Mickey in time with his movements, until Mickey comes with a guttural moan ripped from his throat. It's splendid, transcendent, but Mickey barely has a moment to process it before Ian starts moving again, keeps fucking him, the sensation different now that he's so sensitive and raw, but still fucking amazing.

Ian doesn't stop, keeps thrusting fast, one hand finding its way to Mickey's hair where the fingers dig in, and Mickey fucking loves it, moans breathlessly as Ian suddenly comes hard with a choked groan, hips pressing up against his ass as they still.

Mickey can't really think properly, can't really see or hear, and he's really only vaguely aware of Ian pulling out and rolling off of him, disposing of the condom and then just laying down flat on his back. The sheets are sweaty and gross, but Mickey could not care less, blinking up at the dark ceiling, chest heaving. He slides his hand across the mattress, until he finds Ian's hand, their fingers immediately lacing together, and he lets out a heavy breath.

This is exactly the way it's supposed to be.

 

Mickey slowly blinks his eyes open the next morning, and the first thing he sees is Ian. Ian, lying close, at his side, red hair like a messy halo around his head as the sun creeps in through the window behind him. Ian smiles.

"Good morning," he says, and Mickey heaves a deep, contented sigh, closing the space between them and connecting their lips, briefly. He pulls away, meets Ian's gaze, a smile of his own shaping his mouth.

"Yeah, it is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. Thanks again! <3
> 
>  
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](http://lemonoclefox.tumblr.com)


End file.
